


Children of Dust and Ashes

by Jay_the_bird



Series: The wild west AU [1]
Category: Ranger's Apprentice - John Flanagan
Genre: Banter, Camping, Canon-Typical Violence, Father Figures, Found Family, Heavy Angst, Wild West AU, angst over pritchard's death, guys being dudes, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:09:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 50,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24829618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jay_the_bird/pseuds/Jay_the_bird
Summary: This is a Wild West AU of Ranger's apprentice.Out on the plains, life is harsh. For the Rangers, it is getting harsher. Morgarath is determined to eradicate them, and with every passing day, it seems more and more that he might just succeed.Lewis is rangerthursday11's OC
Relationships: Crowley Meratyn/Halt O'Carrick, Gilan (Ranger's Apprentice)/Original Character
Series: The wild west AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1850326
Comments: 106
Kudos: 52





	1. The Fool

**Author's Note:**

> hi!
> 
> thanks for clicking on this, please do read and review in the comments, I'd love to hear where you think this is going because I have no clue.
> 
> -Jay

The Rangers were not, strictly speaking, outlaws. This was more because Duncan – the mayor of the small township of Araluan, and all but its king – was reluctant to prosecute them for any blatant misdemeanours than because they abided by the law with any degree of severity. They didn’t live in the town itself, but instead rode in every few months with a herd in tow – usually of cattle or horses – and tethered them unguarded outside the Saloon, where they resided for about a week, selling off the animals. Will strongly suspected that these herds were stolen, a suspicion shared by the townsfolk and law enforcement, who nonetheless bought their wares and sold them on for a small profit. As long as the Rangers weren’t stealing from them, nobody really cared where their herds came from. Towards the end of each of the Rangers’ stays, Sheriff Arald would visit them, taking care not to inspect the beasts for sale too closely, and usually handed over a few warrants before leaving quickly. It was mutually beneficial that he didn’t see any illegal activity – which was why he only arrived once the majority of their stock was gone.

Will avoided the Rangers. He was already unpopular among the youths of the township, because his slight build and short attention span meant he didn’t enjoy taking part in most of their activities – mostly helping out with building work or following the sheriff and his posy around. The last thing he needed was to be associated with the band of roaming horsemen.

This was why he was feeling particularly miserable. Over the last few visits, he had noticed one of the Rangers watching him. They were none too subtle about it. Wherever he went in the town, there was always one of them nearby, drinking from a hip flask and leaning against a wall or fence in a mock casual manner.

They were due back soon. It had been a month and a half since the Rangers had ridden out in a cloud of red dust and a clatter of hooves. Arald and Duncan looked towards the horizon more expectantly with every day. Will, however, lived in fear that this visit would be the one where Horace noticed how the Rangers followed him around Araluan and found a way to weaponize it. Still, days turned into weeks, which turned into a further month and still the Rangers did not return. Will had just about allowed himself to begin to hope they would never come back when they did.

Sparks flew from the paving stones as they rode in, providing dramatic lighting in the clouded night. Will was woken from a restless sleep by the clattering of hooves and rushed to the window of the shared room that the wards had over the jail. He couldn’t make out much, only the dust and the shapes of horses and men at first, and then, as the dust faded, he could see their movements as they dismounted, one of them leading their mounts into the stables while another strode purposefully into the Saloon. This time, there were only the small band, no herd of stolen beasts in tow, no prisoner being dragged through the dust. Will’s curiosity was piqued. He looked back at his fellow wards, all still asleep, and realised he might have been the only one to see the Rangers arrive. His breath fogged against the dirty glass of the window and he raised an arm to wipe it clear when he had the strangest feeling someone was watching him. He paused, scanning the group of Rangers, and saw one turn away, picking up a pack from the ground. The feeling was gone as soon as it arrived. Will hesitated a second longer before curiosity won out and he wiped at the window furiously, smudging the dust and grime across the glass before it came loose, allowing him a clearer look at the main street of the town. By now, the Rangers were almost all gone, disappearing into the Saloon with their packs one by one. Only two lingered in the street, looking towards the horizon – away from Will. They seemed to be in deep conversation, standing close to one another. Even from this distance, he could see the heavy sigh that the taller one gave as he turned towards the Saloon. The shorter said something further, and they both appeared to laugh, although Will very much doubted that the laughter was anything close to genuine amusement.

By morning, the whole town knew of their presence. It was difficult not to notice the Rangers, Will thought. They disrupted the whole town when they arrived, and everyone was a little more wary while they stayed. Now, curious about the strange band, the townsfolk were distracted about their daily tasks. Ulf, going to fetch water for his own horses, had to make no less than seven trips out to the water tower, as he forgot buckets, filters, and the purpose of his trip.

The Rangers sat in the shade outside the Saloon, drinking steadily and grimly as the sun climbed in the sky. One of them, a younger man, was bandaged around his head, and the other four were holding themselves carefully so as to avoid aggravating hidden injuries. They seemed unbothered by the behaviour of the townsfolk, and only moved to check the water level in the horses’ trough or to fetch food and drink for themselves from inside the Saloon. Despite his wariness, Will found a vantage point near the Rangers and watched them through the day, fascinated despite himself by the easy way that they interacted with one another. One of them looked up to the roof where he lay, in a seemingly casual sweeping gaze that stopped and rested on the boy. Will, caught by those sharp eyes, was struck by the idea that the Rangers saw more than they ever let on. The young man looking at him grinned broadly despite his bandaged head and elbowed the older, grizzled Ranger next to him in a familiar way. Now Will was transfixed by the gazes of two separate Rangers, who were talking calmly to one another as if nothing was wrong. He wriggled backwards, desperate to get out of their line of sight and lay in the centre of the flat roof, rolling over to stare at the white clouds as they scudded across the pale blue sky.

Will couldn’t understand why the Rangers continued to show interest in him. He was a nobody, an orphan in the care of the Sheriff – and, unlike his fellow wards, nobody had any idea who his parents had been. It wasn’t as if he had any useful skills, as Horace was always eager to remind him. His attention span was limited, his slight frame made him useless for helping to construct the railroad, and he hadn’t shown any promise as a carpenter or blacksmith. He was good with horses, but so was everyone else in this town. Other than that, Will thought ruefully, he was only a sneaking nuisance, a minor thief, and a decent climber. Nothing special at all. He glanced again over the edge and saw the dark gaze of the Ranger still fixed on him. Will shivered. Somehow, the sun seemed to have lost its warmth in the face of that grim, steady gaze.

As the day went on, the sun rising high overhead and then sinking towards the sheer cliffs of the canyon, he remained on the roof, listening to the murmuring of the Rangers in the street below – and occasionally stealing looks at them. Every time he dared to crawl closer to the edge, one of the Rangers spotted him, always going out of their way to alert the same one as before, who never moved from his position on the edge of the decking, slumped in his place. No matter how many times it happened, the grim man always looked up, analysing Will with that cold, sharp stare. Each time, Will wracked his brains, trying to imagine how he could have attracted the attention of this Ranger. The Rangers began to pack up as the sun dropped ever lower, almost brushing the horizon. One of them, a man with long dark hair that was tied loosely at the nape of his neck, went to the horses, checking on each of them, one by one, and distributing what looked like crisp green apples. There were six Ranger horses tied up, Will realised, frowning. Six Ranger’s horses, but only five Rangers. Perhaps one of them had died, Will thought, surprised at the fear that thrilled through him at the thought. What could kill a Ranger? Turning his attention from the horses, he noticed that the leader of their group, whose long red hair was braided elaborately, was engaged in a tense conversation with Sheriff Arald. He gestured to the bandaged Ranger, saying something in a quiet tone that Will couldn’t make out. Arald’s response was apologetic.

Then the Ranger who had been sitting next to their leader stood, and they both went quiet. Both of them looked at him expectantly, waiting for whatever it was he had to say. His short cropped dark hair, streaked with silver, marked him as the one who had shown interest in Will, who automatically ducked back down for half a second. When he poked his head back up, the grim man was pointing at him. Arald looked up and met Will’s eyes just before the boy ducked back down again. For a few desperate moments, he waited, heart pounding, crouching on the roof. Then, slowly, he peeked back over the edge. A piece of paper was being exchanged between the two men. The grim Ranger slid it into a pocket on his waistcoat and turned on his heel, hauling his bandaged comrade up and assisting him into the Saloon.

Will knew he had to see that piece of paper.

As evening fell, the Saloon was packed. The Rangers sat at a small table with Duncan, Arald, and certain other key members of the township. Will, eager to learn more about the Rangers, bought the drinks to their table, taking them from a grateful Chubb, the Barkeeper, who was as overworked as he was irritable. He stayed with them, listening to their conversation, which, as people filtered out of the Saloon and back to their beds, turned to serious matters.

“Morgarath’s brigands caught up to us a day’s ride from the ranch.” The Rangers’ leader was saying, in a quiet, even tone. “We had to leave the cattle behind.”

“Gilan could have died.” The grim one hissed, eyes flashing with hidden fire. The table went very quiet as everyone avoided looking at the young Ranger with the bandaged head.

“I didn’t though.” Gilan grinned irreverantly. “Gave as good as I got.” With a bitter laugh, the dark-haired ranger next to him gave a significant look to the quiver of arrows at Gilan’s hip.

“That you did.” There is a moment of silence, followed by a heavy sigh from Duncan.

“He is a brute, but Morgarath is well within his rights to chase trespassers off.” He said, more to his tankard than anyone in particular.

“He’s a thief.” Gilan replied with unexpected heat. Eyes wide, Will watched him, taking in his handsome features as the young man looked around the table for agreement. “Alright, I know we are too- ”

“Could you please pretend that you’re not breaking the law?” Duncan interrupted him, sounding exhausted, and Gilan flashed a quick smile in response.

“Anyway, he steals land he has no right to. We’re just settlers here, but Morgarath takes more than he needs, from people who have little to nothing.”

“There’s nothing we can do about it.” Muttered Arald, although he sounded as though he would very much like to personally do something. Something violent, from the look on his face. Will looked around at the assembled group eagerly, wanting to hear more about this Morgarath. Luckily for him, one of the other Rangers was taking a breath to talk.

“There’s nothing you can do about it.” He said in a sinister tone. “We, on the other hand…” Trailing off, he looked at his leader, who was already shaking his head.

“Look what his brigands have done to us already. We can’t risk aggravating him further.” When the Ranger opened his mouth again, his leader continued. “You know we can’t, Liam.” Will was delighted by the fact that he knew two Rangers’ names now. Liam had red hair, cropped short, which he now pushed back from falling in his eyes, looking furiously at the table to avoid anyone else’s eyes. Will looked from him to Gilan, noting that they were the two youngest of the group, and both were flushed with anger. He couldn’t blame them, and from the sympathetic looks of the others, neither could they.

“Crowley’s right.” Duncan said, gesturing towards the leader of the Rangers. “Morgarath is too powerful to be challenged.” Almost in unison, all the men drank, seeming resigned in their frustration.

“Of course, if someone were to do something, we’d none of us mourn him.” The darkness in the sentence didn’t surprise Will. He had expected something of the sort when the grim Ranger, as he had taken to calling him in his own mind, began to speak. What did surprise him was his own mental response to it, as he imagined riding with the Rangers and tackling this Morgarath, taking him down for the good of all. Crowley hid a smile from his grim companion, turning away from him. Will just about caught it.

“That’s besides the point.” The red-haired man said, waving a hand dismissively. “We’ll be leaving again soon. With Morgarath stealing our cows – ” here, Duncan raised an eyebrow incredulously – “we need to find something else.”

“We have a few warrants you could try for.” Arald pulled a sheaf of papers and slid them across the table. The grim Ranger leafed through them, pulling out one in particular and passing it around the Rangers.

“Foldar?” The Ranger who had not yet spoken – the one with long dark hair – swore quietly, glancing apologetically at Will as he remembered the young boy was still present. Crowley took the rest of the pile, sorting through them. There was an expectant silence as the Rangers awaited his verdict, evidently on board with whatever he decided. Eventually, he set them down with a note of finality.

“We’ll take them all.” He said. The Rangers showed no surprise, but Duncan hissed through his teeth and Arald raised his eyebrows. Will, eyes still wide with amazement at all he was seeing and hearing, briefly forgot to breathe. “Tomorrow, we gather supplies, and then we ride at dawn the next day.”

It was only later, staring at the ceiling above his bed, that Will realised he had forgotten all about his plan to steal the piece of paper.


	2. The Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!
> 
> This was originally going to be another Will chapter, following on with the next bit of the story, but then I was planning backstories and it turned into this! Enjoy! I'm sorry!
> 
> \- Jay

It wasn’t that Halt didn’t like Araluan. Quite the opposite, in fact. He just didn’t like the boredom. Everyone knew each other, and everyone liked each other, and there seemed to be nothing whatsoever that he could do while they were there except sell stolen horses and cattle and keep an eye out for the boy.

The boy was technically his responsibility. He’d dropped him off nearly sixteen years ago with Sheriff Arald, after his father, a Ranger and one of Halt’s friends, had died, leaving behind the boy, only a baby at the time, and without a soul in the world to care for him. Halt didn’t count himself as able to care for a child. For one thing, he lived a rough, dangerous life, totally unsuitable for raising a baby, and for another, he didn’t have the faintest idea of what to do with a baby even if he wasn’t leading that life.

So he had put the boy in the care of Arald, where he had grown up healthy, mostly happy, and safe. And then, one day, lazing about in town and looking for a trinket to buy for Crowley, Halt saw the boy again and realised he’d grown up to be exactly the kind of person that the Rangers wanted in their ranks. Quick, unobtrusive, with a vague, conceptual idea of the law that didn’t exactly match up with reality.

Whatever feelings Halt held personally for Araluan, the Rangers inevitably had to leave, riding off after a week into the canyons. This was where Halt felt he truly belonged, in the great open plains with red dust in his eyelashes and Crowley watching his back. This was where he’d first run into Morgarath. Morgarath and Halt had a mutual hatred for one another. Halt thought he was an arrogant, stuck up prick, and Morgarath thought Halt was a nuisance – a role Halt was more than happy to play.

In Halt’s humble opinion, a man who owned that much land and that many herds was asking to be robbed. It was an opinion shared by the other forty-nine Rangers, scattered as they were across the plains, and one that united them as one group, no matter where they might be. Forty-eight, he mentally corrected himself. Pritchard was dead, and it wouldn’t do to go forgetting that.

The cold stars looked down on him, unfeeling and impassive. There was no comfort to be found there, and none in the hard ground beneath him either. They hadn’t lit a fire – that would have pinpointed their location for all to see. Crowley was gone, riding through the night to reach the main Ranger camp, their semi-permeant home. Nobody knew about its existence, let alone location, except for the Rangers. There, Crowley would be able to find support, backup, and warn the other groups about Morgarath. Since the death of Pritchard, he’d taken over as leader of the corps and assumed all the responsibility that entailed. Halt knew he hadn’t really wanted to lead. He sometimes caught his partner staring off into the distance as if willing Pritchard to return from whatever far-off land the dead went to. All too often, Crowley caught him doing the same.

Pritchard had been almost larger than life. A hero, a father figure, a good man who gave and gave until he had nothing left to give but his life. There was silence where he ought to be, because nobody knew how to talk about him now that he was gone. Everyone had a different way of coping with the gaping hole where he ought to be. Crowley pushed himself to fill that space, laughing louder, taking on more responsibility. Halt had shrunk into himself, becoming quieter, spending more time with his own thoughts and less time talking to others. As he was doing now, he realised, with a rueful smile that no one else could see.

The worst bit was that no one else had noticed – well, no, the worst bit was that Pritchard was dead. The fact that nobody seemed to notice the aching emptiness that Halt carried with him was a testament to that fact that his years of building an unapproachable, unperturbed outer shell had been all too successful.

Rolling over to better wrap himself in his bed roll, Halt searched for another topic to think on - one that wouldn’t lead back to regrets and keep him awake all night. As he did so, he grunted, all too aware of a bruise forming on his shoulder and the pain in his knees. The ranger on guard – Harrison was taking this watch – looked over, and, seeing that it was just Halt rolling over, turned back to his task, settling into the cover of a thorn bush and scanning the plains around them for approaching enemies. Harrison was a quiet man. Practical in all things, including emotion. He’d taken an arrow to the knee as they fled from Morgarath, shielding Liam from the shot meant for him. Even so, he’d been determined to carry on with his duties, helping to set up camp and offering to take the first watch. Now he was sat with one leg stretched out in front of him, noting every dark shape against the red sand. That was the one good thing about the lack of cover – nobody could conceal their approach. Well, thought Halt, with grim humour, nobody but the Rangers could.

He lay quietly for what could have been seconds or hours, and then sighed heavily, sitting up. Harrison looked over again, just for a moment. Sleep was out of reach. Usually, Halt could fall asleep at the drop of a hat, whenever and wherever he liked, and wake up at a precise amount of time later fully rested. Tonight, however, his head was too full, thoughts rattling around and driving off restfulness. Now that he had accepted the sleepless night ahead of him, he relieved Harrison of his watch – at least one of them would get a good night’s sleep – and wrapped himself in the shadows of the thorn bush to wait out the night.

An hour before dawn, Crowley returned, barely waiting for Cropper to stop before he swung out of the saddle. Halt rose up out of the bush, seeing the relieved look that appeared on Crowley’s face when he saw him.

“The camp is gone.” He said, grasping at his gourd of water. “There’s nothing left.”

“Morgarath?” Halt asked, guiding Crowley to sit down by the space where the fire would have been.

“Who else would it have been?” With a bitter laugh, Crowley replied. He was angry, Halt realised. Angry and more than a little afraid. “This wouldn’t have happened if Pritchard was still in charge.” So, Crowley had been thinking of him too, while he’d been gone. Halt wasn’t surprised. The two of them tended to follow the same trains of thought – which was why they worked together so well – and Halt doubted that the ghost of Pritchard ever really left either of their thoughts.

“You don’t know that.” He said. Crowley gave him a disbelieving look but didn’t argue. Presumably he didn’t have the energy, having ridden all night at breakneck pace to and from the Rangers’ camp. There was no point reminding him that Halt missed Pritchard too – he already knew that. No point in trying to convince him he could do a better job, that they weren’t all worse off without the man. “Don’t try and take this on alone.” Almost whispering, Halt rested his head on Crowley’s shoulder. He could hear Crowley’s breathing slowing, calming down. “We’re in this together.” That was all he could offer – the promise to stick by him, no matter what. That was all he could ever offer, Halt thought bitterly. No solutions, no advice, just a guard at his back. He knew, deep down, that this feeling of worthlessness would pass, that it was bought on by the defeat they’d suffered and hadn’t been helped by the lack of sleep. Unfortunately, however much he knew that, the feeling persisted, hanging from his limbs like weights, pulling him down. He felt so tired.

“We’ll head for Araluan.” Crowley said after a long silence. “Get supplies and regroup.” He cast a sidelong glance at Halt. “You can pick up the boy, and then we’ll ride out again.” Not bothering to deny anything – there would be no point to it with Crowley – Halt sighed again.

“Together.” He said, watching the light of a new day begin to creep into the world.

“Together.” Crowley agreed.

They rode into Araluan side by side, the moon high above them behind the clouds. The boy was watching them. As Harrison dismounted and walked into the Saloon, Halt allowed himself to look up at the window above the jail. He continued taking glances in between dismounting, handing Abelard’s reins over to Crowley distractedly. When the boy noticed, he deliberately looked away, picking up someone’s pack from the dust of the road. Liam and Gilan traipsed into the Saloon together while Halt waited for Crowley to return from the stables.

“Still here?” Crowley asked as he emerged, a bundle of spare arrows in hand. “I thought you’d have got to sleep by now.”

“Dangerous times.” Looking back to the horizon, Halt frowned. “It’s probably a good idea not to be alone.” The point was conceded with a shrug.

“I’m here now.” They stood side by side, watching the plains stretch out and out, a blank, monotonous expanse of dust and stunted shrubs reaching to the horizon. “Sometimes – ” Crowley hesitated, just for a moment – “sometimes, I think I can hear him riding Raven towards us. Just a faint sound of hooves, and I think he’s going to catch up to us and chew me out for leaving him behind.” Halt said nothing. The emptiness where Pritchard should be ached more than ever. “But he’s not. He’s dead.” Voice thick with emotion, Crowley was trying to make it sound final, as if by saying it enough times, he could convince himself.

“It’s difficult to believe.” It was difficult to keep the emotion that was threatening to well up and overwhelm him out of his voice. “There’s a hole in the world where he should be, and no one can fill it.” Silence fell over them both. Halt shuffled sideways, knocking his shoulder against Crowley’s in an implicit gesture of support. He was rewarded with a watery smile. “We should head in.” Turning towards the Saloon, Crowley sighed. He wasn’t in any mood to interact with the others. “Unless you want Gilan to steal the biggest bed?” Halt asked, and at that, Crowley did laugh, hastening his pace for a few steps to walk next to Halt as they made their way inside.

By the time the sun rose over Araluan, the clouds had dissipated. A dry, burning heat hung over the town, and the Rangers took advantage of the scant shade outside the Saloon to keep cool. By mid-morning, Halt wanted nothing more than to dive into a lake of cool water and sit underwater for a few hours. He and Crowley sat together, as always, wearing matching expressions of distaste, as if they could shame the weather into being more reasonable.

“That kid’s looking at us again.” Gilan noted, nudging Halt with one pointy elbow. From the roof of the building opposite, the boy had been watching the Rangers’ every movement. Halt looked up, meeting the boy’s eyes. “He’s not too bad at unseen movement.” The tall ranger noted. From Gilan, the compliment meant more than it would from most other Rangers. He was the best at unseen movement in the corps. Despite himself, Halt felt a rush of pride on the boy’s behalf.

“His name is Will.” He said absentmindedly, surprised that he’d remembered the boy’s name. As if he’d heard his name, the boy disappeared back from the edge, hiding from the two Rangers. Halt almost smiled.

“He’d make a good Ranger, dad.” Gilan commented, laughing as Halt choked on his drink. Lately, the young Ranger had taken to calling Crowley and Halt his fathers. It had started as a slip up, for which he had been roundly mocked, and then evolved into a way for him to tease Halt, who had never yet managed to hide his reaction, and, somewhere along the way, Gilan had actually started to think of the pair as being his parents. He didn’t, of course, mention this to the other Rangers, suspecting entirely correctly that they would be incredibly amused if they were ever to find out. What he didn’t know – mostly because Crowley and Halt had made a pact to never mention it – was that the pair had long ago decided that Gilan was their son in all but name, and they would treat him as such.

“He would, wouldn’t he.” Crowley added, grinning at Halt unsympathetically, who in turn contemplated the possibility of taking Abelard and leaving them all behind with their bad attempts at humour.

“I’m sure you’re both hilarious.” He said dryly, tilting his hat down on to obscure his face. Unfortunately, neither of them were intimidated by him anymore, and, far from dissuading any further joking, Halt’s dry comment seemed to encourage them, as Crowley and Gilan simply burst out laughing and began to trade jokes at Halt’s expense. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore them. When they were in this kind of mood, it was the best thing to do.

Arald arrived as the sun was thinking of setting. Crowley stood to greet him, swaying a little on his feet – both from exhaustion and from the copious amounts of watered-down beer he’d been drinking through the day.

“Nothing to sell?” He asked.

“We were attacked.” Voice tense, Crowley looked as though he were on the defensive. “It was Morgarath’s thugs.” The Sheriff held up his hands apologetically.

“I hope you’re all alright?” With a glance around the group, Arald frowned. They all looked exhausted, battered and bruised. Crowley let out a sharp, bitter laugh. Rolling his eyes and looking away, Halt noticed the boy, poking his head up to try and see what was going on. He stood up.

“Do you have the report?” Quiet and steady, Halt kept his voice impassive. It wouldn’t do to let Arald think Halt needed this from him. When the Sheriff looked confused, Halt pushed down his frustration and pointed up at the roof where the boy was. “The report on Will’s progress. Do you have it?” He watched the way that the confusion melted away and was replaced by understanding, while Arald dug in a pocket and produced a few sheets of paper, folded neatly and stamped with his seal. Halt tucked the papers away without looking through them. He would do that later, perhaps the next morning, when he had some time to himself. For now, he simply nodded and turned to Gilan, who looked as though he was about to fall over, dragging him to his feet and supporting him into the Saloon, ignoring the protests that he was fine.


	3. The Wheel of Fortune

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello folks!
> 
> As promised, the story continues, and guess what?  
> I have a plan! Wow, I know, revolutionary, never been done before. But I do!
> 
> But that's the future. For now, please enjoy this humble offering and comment below (it does a lot for my self esteem) Thank you all very much!
> 
> \- Jay

By the time the sun rose, the Rangers were already hard at work. Will followed Alyss out into the street, babbling excitedly about what he’d heard the previous evening. She shielded her eyes, looking down the street to the Saloon.

“They certainly look busy.” Alyss said eventually. “You said they’re leaving tomorrow?” Nodding enthusiastically, Will followed her line of sight and spotted Gilan, who was gingerly unwrapping his head. The handsome young Ranger paused as he noticed the pair of them and waved at Will, grinning. “He looks nice.” She said quietly, glancing at Will, who went a little red in the face.

“That’s Gilan. He took out three of the bandits by himself.” Will waved back, and then felt a resounding clout around the back of his head.

“What are you doing?” Groaning, Will ducked away from Horace. “Waving to Rangers?” The taller boy laughed. “Be careful, they’ll be stealing you away next thing you know.” Alyss noticed the dejected look on Will’s face and frowned.

“Actually, Will was just telling me about how they’re working with Sheriff Arald to stop some outlaws.” She said, giving Horace a withering look that shut him up at record speed. “Go and get Jenny – Mr. Chubb will be needing help.” It was a mark of how well respected she was among the wards that Horace didn’t argue. When he was gone, Alyss regarded Will with an even stare. “You know I’m going with Ms. DuLacy on her next delivery trip, don’t you?” It seemed almost out of the blue. Will nodded. He had been trying not to be upset over Alyss leaving. He knew it was her dream to ride with the couriers on the caravan trails. Still, he couldn’t help feeling a pang of sadness at the thought of her leaving. George had already gone, off to the big city to train as a lawyer, and with Jenny and Alyss starting into their own careers, and Horace about to be taken on as an apprentice with Arald and Rodney, Will was all too aware that he didn’t have a future planned out. He frowned, worried by that thought. Luckily, Alyss noticed, and gave him a hug. “You’ll figure it out.” Will nodded, continuing to look over at Gilan. “Maybe you already have.” She added gently. He laughed quietly, glancing at her to see her smile.

“I don’t know.” When Alyss didn’t respond, Will continued. “It’s the Rangers. You know what people say about them.”

“I know.” She gave him a wry smile. “I don’t believe most of it, and neither do you.” Will ducked his head, looking a little abashed. “Go and help that one. He looks like he’s been in the wars.”

“Gilan.” Will said automatically and went slightly red again. Raising one eyebrow, she declined to respond, walking off with her head held high, almost gliding down the street and into the post office. Will watched her go, slightly wistful. Alyss was a good friend, and he didn’t really want her to leave.

“Hey, Will!” He realised it was Gilan calling him, and ran over, unable to stop himself grinning at the young Ranger. “Here.” Pointing to a large and heavy looking pack, he looked apologetically at Will. “Take it to Ulf. He’s lending us a couple of pack horses.” Eager to please the young Ranger, Will picked up the pack and swung it onto his back. Ulf’s stables were just next door to the Saloon, but Gilan was looking peaky, as though the blow to the head he’d suffered had left him slightly concussed. Will jogged over and found one of Ulf’s apprentices cleaning out the stable who was more than happy to take the pack off his hands and abandon his previous task. Returning to Gilan, he sat in the dust next to the Ranger and watched him as he sorted arrows into bundles of twelve.

“Halt wants you to come with us, you know.” Gilan said, voice calm and steady. Startled by him breaking the silence, Will took a moment to figure out what he’d said. Going with the Rangers – Will would be lying to himself if he denied thinking about it.

“Who’s Halt?” He asked. After a moment of staring incredulously at him, Gilan laughed out loud, throwing his head back. He looked nice when he laughed, Will thought, and then thought that Gilan looked nice all the time and went and interesting shade of puce.

“Who’s Halt?” Gilan repeated, still laughing. “He’s the short one.” When Will still looked blank, Gilan elaborated further. “Looks grumpy all the time? Constantly tired?” Nodding understanding, Will was unable to stop a touch of fear creeping into his expression.

“Why does he want me?” Sounding miserable, Will dragged his finger in patterns through the dust of the road. “I’m not anything special.” He looked up again as Gilan laughed.

“You’d have to ask Halt that.” At the look of fear that once again passed over Will’s face, he laughed. “He’s not that bad once you get to know him.” Still doubtful, Will didn’t try to dispute this fact – although he couldn’t imagine Halt ever not being an intimidating figure. As so often happens, while they were speaking about Halt, he emerged from the Saloon, holding a sack of grain over one shoulder. Will immediately dropped his gaze, focussing very hard on the dirt road. It wouldn’t do to go offending a Ranger. From what the townsfolk said, Will was half convinced that the Rangers were some kind of faerie.

“How’s that head?” The Ranger asked Gilan, seeming to ignore Will completely. Gilan grinned at him in response.

“I’m fine, Dad.” At that, Will looked up in surprise, trying to find any resemblance between the two men that he might have somehow missed before. Instead, he saw Halt spluttering indignantly, as if thrown off. Grinning broadly, Gilan looked extraordinarily pleased with himself.

“I don’t suppose asking you to stop that would do any good?” Halt said, having recovered himself enough to sound tired rather than surprised.

“No.” Grinned Gilan. He gave the other Ranger a significant look and jerked his head none too subtly in Will’s direction. With a heavy sigh, Halt looked down at him.

“You want to help, boy?” He said. Will nodded enthusiastically, not trusting himself to speak. “Hm. I suppose you’d better follow me then.” With that, he turned on his heel and strode off towards the Saloon stables.

It was a long, hot day, and Will spent most of it carrying supplies. There were breaks, in which Halt introduced Will to one of the horses – the smallest one, whose name was Tug. Tug nearly yanked Will’s arm out of his socket as the boy tried to lead him to the water trough out front. He was small, but no less powerful for it, and Halt assured him that the horse could outrun most others – and outlast them too. Will wasn’t entirely sure why he was being told this, but he appreciated it, nonetheless. He liked Tug, and as far as he could tell, the little horse liked him too. Halt definitely approved of his budding friendship with Tug, and despite himself, Will found himself seeking out that approval though the day.

“Time to stop for the night.” Halt said eventually, when he noticed Will was flagging. Wanting to continue as long as possible, Will started to protest, but was cut off by Halt. “We’ll be leaving at dawn tomorrow. You’d better get yourself a good night’s sleep.” Shoulders slumping with disappointment, Will nodded.

“I’ll come and see you off.” He mumbled, missing the look of confusion that crossed Halt’s face. By the time he looked up, the Ranger was nodding.

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow, boy.” Will was dejected as he turned to leave. As he reached the stable door, Halt spoke again. “You did good today, Will.”

He couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t the oppressive heat or Horace’s snoring that was stopping him. Will was thinking about a sheet of paper, exchanged between the Sheriff and Halt. He could see it in his mind’s eye, a small white sheet disappearing into Halt’s pocket. Before he really knew what he was doing, Will had got out of bed and was pulling on his boots, halfway to the door already.

There were lights on in the rooms above the Saloon. Will stopped in the shadow of the doorway, wondering whether to continue. Too late to go back now, he reasoned, and slipped inside. The Saloon was cooler inside. Moving smoothly from one shadow to the next, Will made his way to the stairs. They creaked horribly as he climbed them, but Will took the stairs slowly, letting them settle. At the top of the stairs he paused, and, hearing lowered voices coming from the left, turned that way. The voices became clearer as he approached.

“I don’t know. He’s just a boy.” That was Halt. Will froze in place, listening.

“You said he had potential.” The other replied quietly.

“He does.” Halt said. He sounded tired. There was a long silence. “I don’t want...”

“I know.” It was Crowley, Will realised. “I know.” Another long silence, during which Will shuffled a little closer. “I’ve read the report. He’s more than capable.”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know.” Again, the note of tiredness was clear in Halt’s voice.

“We’ll keep him safe. Together.” All of a sudden, Will wanted to leave. He felt like an outsider, like he was intruding on an intimate moment. He ran, discarding stealth in favour of speed, crashing down the stairs at breakneck speed and never stopping until he was curled up under his covers, eyes closed tight, listening to the sound of Horace snoring once more.

He woke before dawn to the sound of horses in the street. The Rangers were leaving. Will clambered out of bed, rushing to the window, and saw Gilan seated on his horse – Blaze, he remembered, the tallest one. None of the rest were mounted yet, but they looked like they were preparing to be. Looking out at them, something clicked in his mind, and a decision that he hadn’t really known he was struggling with was made. Hurrying, he gathered all his things into a bag, packing his brush and shirts and small knife haphazardly together. In the space of a few minutes he emerged onto the street, pulling his hair back into a loose ponytail. Halt had mounted up, keeping Abelard perfectly still in the centre of the road as he waited for Liam to adjust his own saddle. Seeing Will, he turned and trotted over to him.

“Come to see us off, have you?” He asked, sounding disinterested. Will’s mouth went dry with nerves.

“No sir. I’m going with you.” An eyebrow crept half an inch up on Halt’s face.

“Sir?” He asked incredulously. It might have been Will’s imagination, but Gilan looked like he was hiding laughter.

“Yes… sir.” Now Gilan was definitely laughing, his shoulders shaking with the effort of remaining silent. Halt was somewhere between surprise and exasperation.

“We don’t do that. You’ll call me Halt. No need for fancy titles.” Then, wheeling Abelard away, he called to Harrison. “He needs a horse!”

For some reason, everyone was very interested in Will getting a horse. He’d been handed Tug’s reins by Harrison, who patted him on the shoulder as he did so and wished him good luck. Even Crowley stopped what he was doing, leaning against a fence post with a look of amusement on his face as he watched Will prepare to mount Tug for the first time.

“I have ridden a horse before, you know.” He said, slightly put out. Liam grinned at him.

“Not a Ranger horse.” Looking around at the assembled group, Will frowned.

“What’s so special about riding a Ranger horse?” He asked.

“They can’t be stolen.” Crowley said simply, hiding a smile. Supressing the urge to roll his eyes, Will turned back to Tug.

“Halt told me that yesterday.” With that, he put one foot in the stirrups and swung himself up into the saddle. For a moment, everything was still. Will opened his mouth to speak, and then all hell broke loose. Tug jumped what felt like a metre in the air and came down bucking. Automatically, Will held on with his knees and thighs, gripping as hard as he could while he tried to grab hold of the reins, which had been jerked out of his grip with Tug’s first jump. He was fighting a losing battle, however, and when Tug hesitated for a moment, Will made the mistake of thinking it was all over, only to be thrown out of the saddle, falling sideways into the dirt.

To their credit, none of the Rangers laughed out loud, although several of them looked away discretely with shaking shoulders and irrepressible smiles.

“What did I do wrong?” Will asked, looking at Tug, who seemed perfectly calm once more.

“You didn’t give the pass word.” Crowley said, mounting up himself. Cropper stood still and didn’t try to throw him off, much to Will’s chagrin. “You just have to give it the first time, and then he’ll obey you.”

“Tug’s pass word is ‘do you mind?’” Halt said quietly, tilting his head towards the small horse as he stood patiently, waiting for Will to try again. Not entirely certain they weren’t playing some elaborate trick on him, Will nodded, looking at Tug warily.

“Do you mind?” He whispered into his ear and was surprised when the little horse shook his head and whinnied as if in response. With considerably more care than the first time, Will swung up into the saddle, every muscle tensed in preparation for when he would be thrown off once again. A few seconds passed without incident – then a few more, and a few more – until Will felt confident enough to nudge Tug into a trot, walking him up and down the street carefully. He grinned broadly, encouraging Tug to speed up and slow down with subtle nudges of his knee and twitches of the reins. As he passed the group again, he stopped Tug altogether and dismounted, picking up his pack from the dust and attaching it to his saddle. By this point, the rest of the Rangers were mounted, the two pack ponies on lead reins behind Abelard and Cropper. Hurriedly mounting again, Will wondered if they’d been stalling before, waiting for him to arrive and announce his intention to join them. Then he dismissed the thought. Even a Ranger couldn’t have known he would do that – he hadn’t known himself until a few minutes before he’d burst out onto the street. They’d probably just been loading the final supplies onto the pack ponies and had nearly been finished before he arrived. It was a matter of timing. Probably.

“Everybody ready?” Crowley asked. He didn’t wait for a reply, smiling as he turned towards the horizon. “Let’s ride.”


	4. Eight of Pentacles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going off on one right now folks! Let's see how far this streak of inspiration takes me, shall we?
> 
> Hope you enjoy, please let me know if you did!
> 
> \- Jay

Liam was used to riding for days at a time. By this point in his apprenticeship – almost half a year now, he realised – he was well attuned to Acorn’s little eccentricities. He knew how to adjust for and predict each uneven movement, every little prance and sidestep. There weren’t many of them, compared to non-Ranger horses, but Acorn was a fanciful horse with ideas above his station. He liked to show off his fancy footwork every so often, even when it wasn’t necessary whatsoever to do so. Smirking at a little outbreak of prancing, Liam patted Acorn’s neck.

“Steady, boyo.” He murmured. Responding instantly, Acorn’s gait smoothed out, matching that of Cropper ahead of them. The little horse certainly knew who he was trying to impress. Another sign that they were attuned to one another.

_I know what I’m doing._ Acorn replied. _This isn’t my first rodeo._ Liam almost laughed to himself. Then he realised being seen to do so would earn him a few dodgy looks. He wasn’t entirely sure whether the other Rangers talked to their horses or not – it wasn’t something they ever discussed, and Liam was certain that he wasn’t going to be the one to bring it up. They rode on in silence for a while, and then there was a slightly louder clatter of hooves on his left side and Tug appeared, settling into an easy lope once he was next to Acorn. The young boy riding him smiled nervously at Liam. His name was Will, Liam remembered, and now he looked closer, he could see Will wasn’t much younger than him. A year, at most.

“Do you know where we’re going?” He asked, looking concerned. Hesitating, Liam realised he didn’t. Now he was in a conundrum, wanting to appear knowledgeable in front of the new kid while also having no idea where it was Crowley was leading them to. Luckily for him, Harrison, riding a little ahead of them, had heard Will’s question too.

“We’re going to the Gorge.” Eyes wide, Liam was at the very least surprised by this information. He’d only been there once before, to bury Pritchard. His mind shied away from those particular memories automatically.

“What’s the Gorge?” Will asked in a lower tone. It took a moment for Liam to come up with a description, distracted as he was with not thinking about his last visit.

“It’s home. It’s where the Rangers go when we’ve been scattered – or when something’s gone badly wrong.” This hadn’t helped matters – if anything, Will looked more confused.

“But you’re all here, aren’t you?” Up ahead, someone – probably Gilan – laughed. Liam was suddenly very aware that everyone else was listening to their conversation, and that he should tread very carefully from now on. The last thing he wanted was to get something wrong and be corrected in front of the whole group as well as the new kid.

“We’re only one branch. There are nearly fifty Rangers altogether.” He said. “Usually we have a camp out on the plains, but when Crowley rode on ahead to get there a week ago, it was gone.”

“Gone?” The boy echoed.

“Gone. Nothing left.” The gravity of that statement took a moment to sink in. Will went quiet, presumably pondering the same question they all had been since Crowley had arrived back with the news.

“Liam…?” He asked, nearly five minutes later. Liam turned to look at him, tilting his head inquisitively. “What does the Gorge look like?” Again, he hesitated.

“I’ve only been there once.” In his mind’s eye, he could see it, but there didn’t seem to be enough words to describe the place. “It’s – it’s not something you can really describe. You’ll see it soon enough.” The boy considered this, frowning a little.

“Why did you go last time?” He asked. Dangerous territory, Liam thought, glancing towards Crowley and Halt. Neither of them looked like they cared particularly about the conversation happening behind them, but he could remember all too clearly how they had been, riding out of the Gorge last time – the new corps leader and his second in command, both grieving and looking for revenge. If there was any chance that Liam’s explanation could take them back to that mood, he was going to avoid it at all costs.

“Because I’m a Ranger.” He said haughtily, purposefully misunderstanding him. “Even if I am only an apprentice.” Before Will could offer any correction, he touched his knees to Acorn’s sides and they accelerated away from Tug and Will, effectively ending the conversation. He felt a little guilty about brushing the boy off, but not so guilty he was willing to risk upsetting Crowley and Halt just to explain what had happened with Pritchard to Will – who, after all, had only been with them half a day, if that.

_That went well._ Acorn said dryly.

“We’ll stop here for the night.” Crowley said, sometime in the mid-afternoon. The group stopped almost immediately, all moving as one smoothly operating team. While Halt secured the two pack ponies, enlisting the help of Will to remove their saddles and bridles, Crowley cleared the ground in the middle of a half circle of bushes and laid their bedrolls down. Harrison dug a shallow fire-pit and found stones to line it with, Gilan fed and watered the horses, and before long, the camp was all set up. Liam himself was usually tasked with finding firewood, but with so much dead wood lying about, he wasn’t needed. He hesitated by Acorn, watching everyone else settle down and wondering if going to sit down without doing anything would be frown up – and was unfortunately spotted by Harrison almost immediately.

“Liam, take Will for a perimeter sweep.” Nodding once, he beckoned the boy and grabbed his poncho, a loose covering the colour of dust. It had a hood he could pull up if necessary and was of great help when they needed to go sneaking, as Gilan put it. The two of them jogged a way out from the camp, whereupon Liam began to move more carefully, trying to avoid making noise. Will copied his movements, obviously adept at being stealthy when he needed to be. They paused in the shelter of a tree stump about halfway round, because Will was looking tired.

“Why are we stopping so early?” He gestured in the direction of the camp, and Liam looked up at the sky, still bright and warm.

“It’s the first decent cover we’ve found. We’re camping in a bit that dips down, so we won’t be silhouetted against the sky, and there’s plenty of foliage to cover us. It also gives us time to check for threats in the area.” Seeing as Will still didn’t look convinced, he continued. “And if we’re lucky, it means Crowley will let us have a fire, so we’ll get a hot meal in us.” Liam half stood, getting ready to move on.

“Why do we need cover?” Before Liam could sigh with exasperation, Will explained himself. “I mean – there’s nobody stupid enough to attack a Ranger, is there? And even if there were, nobody could kill one.” Liam flinched noticeably and wished he hadn’t. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about Pritchard to this new kid.

“Come on, we’ve got to move.” He said shortly. A frown line appeared between Will’s eyebrows, but as he opened his mouth to protest, Liam moved, gliding across the ground and into the next bit of cover – a shadow cast by a small ridge. As Will caught up to him, he moved again, never letting him have the opportunity to ask his questions. Keeping on the move, they completed the circuit, scanning the area for any sign of human disturbance. The only thing they found was the tracks made by their own horses riding in, and a rattlesnake’s den, which Liam marked with an upright twig, showing Will what to look for.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Will asked, as they made their way back to camp. “You didn’t say why you’d been to the Gorge, and you got weird again when I said no one could kill a Ranger.” There was an awkward silence, and then Liam stopped. They were far enough from the campsite that nobody would hear them here, and if he didn’t explain now, Will would just keep asking, picking and wounds that hadn’t fully healed.

“When I joined the Rangers, they were… struggling. A few Rangers had died in ‘accidents’, and quite a few of us joined at the same time as apprentices to make up the numbers.” Will’s eyes were wide as he listened, completely silent. “And then our leader was killed.”

“What?” He burst out, mouth dropping open in shock.

“He was called Pritchard. And he was a good man.” Pain laced Liam’s voice as the memories came flooding back, seemingly unlocked by the mention of his name. . “I can’t – I didn’t know him that well. It’s not my place to tell you all about it.”

“Whose place is it?” The boy breathed, eyes still wide with shock.

“You’d have to ask Crowley. Or Halt.” If it were any other situation, he would be amused by the way Will looked a little frightened at the mention of their names. As it was, Liam just felt sick to his stomach. He hated thinking about those dark, miserable days after Pritchard had died. Though he’d never admit it, Liam had been frightened, not just of Morgarath, but of the murderous looks on some of the Rangers’ faces over those days. It had taken weeks for him to even approach Halt again afterwards, and while it had been easier to talk to Crowley, there were still moments of darkness where Liam thought the two of them might leave everyone else behind and hunt Morgarath down themselves.

He shivered, looking up to see where the sun was. They were rapidly approaching sunset, he realised, and staying out here any longer would just mean that they got the dregs of whatever stew was being prepared back at camp.

“Let’s get headed back.” Without checking to see if Will was following him, Liam set off again, heading back for the campsite. Will was unusually quiet as they walked.

By the time they returned to camp, Halt was loading their bowls some kind of stew, and a pot of coffee was being passed around with an odd kind of reverence.

“All clear.” Liam announced, and promptly took the pot off Harrison. The older Ranger aimed a friendly swipe at his head as he sat down, which Liam dodged easily.

“Will, over here.” The boy had been standing awkwardly outside the circle until Halt beckoned him over gesturing to a spot between him and Liam. So, Halt would be training him then, Liam thought, idly stealing a slice of sausage out of Harrison’s bowl in possibly the least subtle way he could have.

“Watch yourself, kid.” His mentor grumbled, promptly stealing a slice back. Liam grinned good naturedly. He knew Harrison well enough to know he wouldn’t hold a grudge for any minor food theft, and Harrison knew he wouldn’t try it again once he’d been warned. The balance they had struck was one that they both enjoyed. Harrison got to relax a little, and Liam got to test the boundaries and mess around without having to worry about serious repercussions. Although, he realised ruefully, he had lost out in this particular exchange. The sausage slice Harrison had taken had been considerably larger than the one Liam had nabbed.

“Can we do some sparring later?” Although he was technically asking Harrison, Liam nonetheless watched Crowley for an answer. If he said no, then Harrison wouldn’t let him train however much he begged. It was always Crowley who had the final say, as leader of the corps and leader of their branch.

“No training tonight.” Crowley announced after some thought. “You can pick up again tomorrow at the Gorge.” Groaning, Liam went back to his stew. He enjoyed training with Harrison, who liked to make him apply his techniques to real life as much as possible. Even theory work, which was usually less fun that weapons training, was made interesting. Besides, he thought, if he wasn’t training every day then he would slip behind and then it would be even longer before he became a fully-fledged Ranger. Liam desperately wanted to be a fully-fledged Ranger. He had a burning desire to be noticed, to prove himself – which, given his age, was not that unusual – and it shone through in everything he did, always trying to go the extra mile to show Harrison and Crowley that he was worthy of the title of Ranger.

“Tomorrow?” Asked Harrison, frowning. “The Gorge is at least a day and a half away.” Everyone went quiet, watching Crowley as he exchanged a look with Halt. They’d obviously discussed this beforehand.

“Not if we really push it.” He spoke so quietly at first that Liam almost didn’t hear him. “We have to find the other branches as soon as possible. I need information – I need to know what happened at camp, I need to know if we lost anyone, and I need to know what we know about Morgarath’s plans. The faster I get that information, the better. For all of us.” That made sense, Liam thought. Information was the lifeblood of the corps, after all, as Harrison was fond of saying. Nonetheless, he groaned quietly at the thought of a full day of hard riding. Harrison cast him an amused look, having heard the small noise of complaint.

“I’ll take the first watch.” Leaning back, Gilan grinned around the group. He had an infectious smile, and Liam found himself grinning back.

“Good.” With an approving nod, Halt looked around the rest of the group, assessing them with his dark gaze. “Harrison, you take second watch, and wake me for the third.” He glanced quickly at Crowley, some silent conversation occurring in those few seconds, and then looked back at the rest of them. There was nothing surprising about that. The two of them were closer than Liam could even imagine being with another person, and often seemed to communicate without talking. “Catch up on your beauty sleep over the next few days, there’ll be precious little of it once we leave the Gorge.” Again, they sprung into action, collecting and scrubbing the bowls and mugs, extinguishing the fire, and, one by one, rolling into their bedrolls and falling asleep, needing no further encouragement to get an early night.

Tomorrow, Liam thought, they’d be sleeping in the Gorge. He shivered. No matter what Halt said about catching up on sleep, he doubted he would rest well there, in that haunting place. He wondered if anyone else felt that way about the Gorge and had just made up his mind to ask Harrison when he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	5. Six of Swords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look to be fair to me, I have at least partially pre-written these chapters, so I'm not spending *every* hour of the day writing.
> 
> And I do really want to keep going because the ideas are flowing.
> 
> \- Jay

The Gorge was a crack in the ground. No wider than a cart’s wheels, it split the earth open for only a few meters, with a smooth path down to the bottom at one end. Will eyed it nervously as they approached.

“Once we’re inside, Harrison will take you to set up.” Wheeling Cropper around to address them, Crowley spoke matter-of-factly. “Gilan, you know where the mattresses are stored, so you can ask Berrigan for some of them. Halt and I will get our own before we catch back up with you.”

“Inside?” Will interrupted, a note of panic in his voice. Tug sidestepped, attuned to his emotions.

“Yes, inside.” Said Halt shortly. As they had got closer to the Gorge over the day, his mood had got worse. This was the most he’d talked over the last two hours, and he sounded poisonous. Will nudged Tug half a step backwards, almost without realising he was doing it.

“Let’s go.” Cropper reared backwards on his hind legs and turned on the spot at a twitch of the reins, and then Crowley led them out of the sunset-lit plains and into the Gorge.

The Gorge was dark and enclosed. Tug sidestepped again, sensing Will’s nervousness, and nearly pinned Will’s leg against one wall. Still they kept moving, deeper into the passage. Will was almost ready to bolt when, finally, it opened up, and he realised they hadn’t been in the Gorge, but rather its entrance.

The Gorge was a massive cavern, centred around what looked like an underground lake. Someone, long ago, had polished the walls so the rock shone like a mirror, reflecting the sunlight that had filtered through hidden cracks in the ceiling and magnifying it so that golden light filled the space. Will’s mouth dropped open.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Looking up, he saw Gilan next to him. “I almost wish we stayed here all the time.” There was a surprising amount of sadness in his voice. “Come on. Harrison will leave us behind otherwise.” He was right, Will realised, and touched his knee to Tug’s flank. Crowley and Halt were already gone, and as he looked back, he saw Gilan peeling off, presumably to fetch the mattresses. As he caught up, Harrison nodded at him, acknowledging his presence.

“Right, Will. We’re the first branch of the Ranger corps. Do you know what that means?” Out of the corner of his eye, Will saw Liam sighing.

“It means we get first pick to set up?”

“It means diddly-squat.” The older Ranger grinned, pleased to have caught him out. “So unless you two find us a decent campsite, we’re not sleeping tonight.”

“Where, exactly, are you going?” Asked Liam sharply, narrowing his eyes.

“I’m going to find Farrel.” Harrison replied, making a show of rising in his stirrups to look out over the cavern. “I’ve had no one to talk to but you lot for a month and a half now, and besides, Farrel has my brewing kit.” There was no malice in his words, Will noticed, despite the fact that he was despairing of their company, and Liam was grinning at his mentor.

“Off you go then. We’ll do all the hard work, and then you can sit around and brew ale.” Voice drenched with sarcasm, Liam nudged Acorn into a trot, moving away from Harrison with Will close behind him.

“I’m glad you see it my way!” His mentor called after them. Liam sighed heavily.

In the shelter of an overhang, they set up a more permanent camp than the one they had slept in the previous night. There were rings already driven into the rock above them, and Liam pulled folded squares of cloth from the packs and hunt them from these rings, separating the space into a few different sleeping areas.

“Harrison might go and sleep with Farrel.” He said, as he was doing so. “He gets the smallest bit, and then Gilan will sleep in that half with you and I. Crowley and Halt can have the rest to themselves.” Will nodded, taking Tug’s saddle and bridle off.

“Where did Crowley and Halt go?” There was a slight hesitation from Liam as Will asked the question.

“They went to visit Pritchard’s grave.” There was a moment of quiet from both of them. Will lowered his head, laying a hand on Tug’s flank. “Wait for Gilan to get back, and then we can take the horses down to the lake and clean them off.”

Gilan found them only a few minutes later, dragging four straw mattresses behind Blaze. He dismounted easily, helping them arrange the sleeping quarters after he’d taken off Blaze’s tack and laid it on a natural shelf of rock next to Tug’s and Acorn’s. He left Liam to guard their campsite as he and Will took the horses down to the water’s edge.

“You alright?” The tall Ranger asked, lifting one of Blaze’s hooves to clean it out. Will nodded distractedly. “Are you sure?” He asked with a hint of sarcasm. Looking up, Will realised that he’d been a little spaced out.

“Sorry Gilan.” Avoiding the young Ranger’s eyes out of embarrassment, Will scuffed his boots on the ground. “I’m just a bit distracted.”

“Got any burning questions?” Voice purposefully casual, Gilan looked over at Will, who hesitated, not sure what to say. Now or never, he thought, summoning the courage.

“Who was Pritchard?” Gilan started, caught out by the question. His mouth opened as if about to reply, and then shut again abruptly.

“I assume Liam told you?” Without waiting for an answer, he nodded, continuing. “Of course he did, you were asking why he’d been here before, and that was Pritchard’s funeral.” Absentmindedly continuing to brush Tug down, Will listened, wide eyed, to Gilan. “Pritchard was our leader, before Crowley. He mentored Crowley, for that matter, and Halt as well when he turned up.” That Halt had ‘turned up’ surprised Will. He’d assumed that Halt had always been a Ranger, that he was one of the facts of the Ranger corps along with horses, stolen herds, and coffee. The idea of him having a past that was not inherently tied up with the Rangers was one he couldn’t quite wrap his head around. “And then… well, it would be nearly half a year now since he died. He was a good man.” On that, Will thought, everyone seemed to agree.

“How did he die?” He asked cautiously.

“Just on a raid. He was with Crowley and Halt, and they were caught in an ambush. From what I understand, Pritchard just… didn’t get away.” Gilan was looking across the lake, some far away memory playing again behind his eyes. “They both blame themselves.” Nodding, Will tried to find the right words to say, only to have them slip though his fingers like smoke. “And Morgarath, of course. They both blame Morgarath.”

“What?” He looked up at Gilan, confused. “Why do they blame Morgarath?”

“It was one of his farms they were raiding. Halt talked them into it, I think. He and Morgarath have some sort of history – they despise each other.” It didn’t seem possible that Will’s eyes could get any wider. Nonetheless, they did. “And of course, after Pritchard died, Halt was ready to ride back there and kill Morgarath himself.”

“Why didn’t he?” Will breathed.

“I don’t know.”

“There are four missing branches.” Crowley said, addressing the assembled Rangers. “They weren’t at the camp when Morgarath attacked, as far as I know, which means that two branches need to work together to go and find them.” So it had been Morgarath who attacked the camp, Will thought. Looking around, he could see that many Rangers were sporting minor injuries. Gilan had removed his head bandage when they had stopped for the night on the way to the Gorge, and he was now sporting a dashing cut that disappeared into his hairline. Stood next to him, Will felt smaller than ever – not that Gilan was at all aware of this, as he grinned at old friends and new alike, explaining who everyone was in a low tone to Will.

“That’s Berrigan. He’s a musician. And over there, with Harrison, that’s Farrel with the battle-axe.” Will drank this information in, gazing around the assembled group. “There’s Geldon and Kane – they’re incredible lockpicks.”

“We’ve all been attacked by hired bandits recently, so nobody has good supplies.” Crowley was saying. “Branches nine, three, and six are in charge of redistributing the wealth for the moment, while we recover, so if there’s anything you need, you know who to go to.” A ripple of laughter made its way round the group.

“What does that mean?” Slightly confused, Will turned to Gilan for an answer.

“He means they’re going to go raiding. Lucky bastards.” The tall Ranger replied. His injury certainly hadn’t decreased his enthusiasm for raiding in the slightest, Will thought admiringly. He also recognised a slight pang of disappointment in himself at the realisation that this meant he wouldn’t be going raiding either.

“Branches one and two will be travelling together to find the lost branches – or to find out what happened to them.” He added grimly. Nobody was laughing now, Will noticed – they were all too concerned for their lost comrades. “Right. Get to it!” They moved quickly, the three raiding branches dispersing back to their camps, while branches one and two remained, milling around and ending up closer as they waited for further orders.

Will looked around at the other Rangers. They all seemed to be around Crowley and Halt’s age, and equally as intimidating. Farrel was there, leaning on his battle-axe as though it was a normal thing to own, and Berrigan, but as for the rest of them, Will couldn’t name a single one. He hadn’t even known that there were more than five or six Rangers yesterday. Now it seemed that was only one ‘branch’. Will wondered how they all knew each other, how it was that Gilan could pick each of them out from a crowd and remember their names, skills, and personality. There were so many of them and they all had an air of quiet confidence that Will associated with danger. Crowley hopped down from his elevated platform, greeting the other Rangers with a nod of his head or a grim smile.

“I can’t help but notice that you didn’t mention killing that scumbag Morgarath during your little speech.” A ranger with dusty brown hair was speaking, one eyebrow raised at Crowley. “Any secret missions we shouldn’t be knowing about?” The mention of Morgarath made the other Rangers look up, with expressions ranging from distaste to outright fury on their faces.

“No.” Crowley replied, stopping next to Halt. “We’re not ready to face Morgarath, and we can’t afford to lose anyone.” Despite paying close attention to Crowley as he spoke, Will didn’t notice the touch of emotion clouding the edges of his voice. “Our job is to find the other branches and bring them home. Understand, Jurgen?” The dust-haired Ranger nodded, looking at the floor.

“Introductions are in order, I think.” Looking deliberately at Will, and then at Halt, Berrigan smiled easily. It dawned on Will suddenly that Halt was his mentor now, as Harrison was Liam’s. The idea was slightly terrifying. Will still wasn’t entirely sure that Halt wasn’t some sort of faerie magician who stole the souls of people who crossed him. Still, he held his head up high, feeling more than a little proud at the idea of being trained by the most feared man on the plains – or at the very least, the most feared visitor to Araluan.

“Hm.” Halt said. “This is Will. He’s my apprentice.” Surprisingly, he glared around at them as if in defence of Will, who dismissed the thought out of hand. So far, Halt had shown mild interest in training him, he thought. There was no reason for the grim Ranger to be defending him from potential teasing from these more experienced Rangers. “Will, this is Berrigan, Egon, Farrel, Jurgen, and Lewin.” He pointed around the group one at a time, making sure Will was still understanding him as he moved on from each of them. For their part, they appeared to be trying to look friendly despite the air of intimidation that each carried with him. “Right. Now that’s done, we can get on with the mission.”

“Thank you for that.” Speaking dryly, Crowley smirked at Halt. “We’ll leave first thing tomorrow, so be ready for that – travel light, because we’ll want to be as fast as possible.” The other Rangers nodded, all business now they had their orders. Even Gilan, usually laid back and joking, looked deathly serious. They looked a little frightening, particularly with Farrel hefting his battle-axe over one shoulder. “Any supplies you’re leaving behind should be given to Samdash – he’s currently organising our emergency stocks.” Around him, the listening Rangers were nodding their understanding and agreement.

“Where do we start?” The Ranger speaking was Lewin, but he was certainly not alone in wanting to know. The task of finding them seemed to Will to be nigh impossible to begin, without any idea of the Rangers’ movements or how they had been targeted and attacked while travelling. Harrison at least was looking hard at Crowley for an answer, and as Will watched the reactions of the others, he could see the same interest in their faces, wanting more information.

“We’re going back to the old camp.” He said calmly. “Samdash had some information on their raiding plans, so we’ll go from there.” Someone made a small sound of derision, and Will was so busy trying to see who it had been that he completely missed the glare Crowley directed at Halt.

“Do you think they’re still alive then?” Egon asked. The low background noise died suddenly, as the Rangers were confronted by the question they had been avoiding. With a thrill of fear, Will realised that Egon was right – the missing Rangers could well have been killed by Morgarath.

“We have to be optimistic.” This time Halt replied, his voice as quiet as ever, with that same note of barely hidden deadliness lurking below the surface. Will was a little confused, trying to align Halt and optimism in his mind. “If there’s even the slightest chance that one Ranger is still alive, we’ll save them.” A murmur of agreement rippled around, edged with the promise of danger. Again, Farrel hefted his battle-axe, swinging it in a small circle in a way that suggested he would like to swing it in a much larger circle into someone’s head.

“Exactly.” Crowley said, some unknown emotion swimming in his eyes as he looked at Halt. After a few seconds, Berrigan cleared his throat discretely.

“Anything more we should know?” He asked. The tips of his ears going slightly red, Crowley shook his head.

“No, that’s all. Thank you.” Once more, he looked around at them, smiling. “Let’s go, shall we?”


	6. The Lovers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! 
> 
> The good news is that this chapter is more fluffy than previous ones have been. The bad news is that it gets worse from here!   
> The song is based on the poem "Do not stand at my grave and weep"   
> Look it up.
> 
> Leave your theories in the comments, I love to hear what you guys think, and please enjoy!
> 
> \- Jay

The Gorge was home. At the very least, it was the closest thing to home that Crowley had ever known. In the long months since Pritchard’s death, he had missed it. Now, it felt empty. There were far too few Rangers here to greet them. Even riding in, he could tell that there were Rangers missing – and quite a few of them, too.

He turned Cropper to the left as the cavern opened up in front of them, splitting from the rest of the group, who continued straight on towards the lake. Halt stayed with him, the two of them riding side by side in silence. They stopped at the entrance to a small tunnel that had been widened and shaped by hand, dismounting and dropping Abelard and Cropper’s reins.

“After you.” Halt said, looking at the tunnel with apprehension. Grimacing, Crowley stepped forwards. He had, in fact, been planning on saying the exact same thing. The tunnel was long and enclosed, barely taller than Gilan. Like most Rangers, Crowley disliked enclosed spaces, and he particularly disliked this one for what lay at the end. He knew Halt felt the same. Taking a deep breath, he strode forwards. Once he was inside, a tight feeling clutched at him inside his chest. It was dark and cold and dry, and he wanted to bolt.

A soft humming sound echoed around them both – some soft, lilting melody that Crowley half recognised – filling the small space with the haunting tune. It sounded lonely. He realised with a start that the sound was Halt, and turned to look at his partner, walking calmly beside him. As the sound died away, he stopped and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek.

“That sounded beautiful.” Crowley whispered. It almost felt like sacrilege to talk now.

“It’s a funeral song.” The sound of Halt’s voice, soft and melodic, echoed around the tunnel. “They sung it at my funeral – it seemed appropriate to sing it for Pritchard.” At the mention of Halt’s funeral, Crowley’s breath caught in his throat. The idea of Halt having had a funeral had never occurred to him, though it made perfect sense once he considered it. He rarely ever spoke of his past, only hinting at some mysterious tragedy to others, and it had taken years for him to trust Crowley and Pritchard enough to tell them. Of course, now that Pritchard was dead, he was possibly the only person alive – other than Halt himself – that knew the full details of Halt’s life before the Rangers, Crowley realised. Every scrap of information he was trusted with about Halt was precious. It felt like trust – like a gift that he had to keep safe from the world lest it be trampled underfoot.

He hummed a part of the melody, listening to it echo off the walls as they continued down the tunnel.

“Do not stand at my grave and cry – I am not there; I did not die.” As the sound of his singing faded away, Halt smiled sharply, dangerously. “Ironic, I suppose.” In the half light from the tunnel’s end, growing stronger with every moment, he looked not quite human, like some ancient creature sent to tempt mere mortals like Crowley to an untimely end. Crowley loved him all the more for it.

As they reached the end of the tunnel, both hesitated, glancing at each other before taking that last step out into the light on the other side. They had emerged onto a ledge in the side of a wide, dry canyon. Smooth, even steps led down from one side of the ledge, winding down to the bottom. Dried petals and leaves crunched underfoot as Crowley and Halt made their way down, step by step, treading the path so many had trod before them. There, at the bottom of the canyon, was the Ranger’s graveyard. An immense oak tree loomed over them, filtering the golden sunlight through its branches. Each grave was covered with a simple stone slab, engraved with the Ranger’s name and an oakleaf. They stopped in front of Pritchard’s. It was no different from the others – Pritchard wouldn’t have wanted it to be – with perhaps slightly more upkeep, but that could be attributed to it being the newest there. Last time, Crowley thought, there hadn’t even been a stone slab, just a pit in the ground into which they’d lowered a simple wooden casket. He’d been aching with guilt and loss, not wanting to believe that Pritchard could be gone. There had been so many emotions in those following days, all boiling within him until he thought he would burst with them. Anger, sadness, bittersweet longing and loneliness all warring for control. In the end, exhaustion had won out, and it hadn’t really left him since.

Now, of course, the weight of his responsibilities weighed down on him until he didn’t have the energy left to grieve properly. He couldn’t figure out how Pritchard had coped with the pressure, with standing in front of the assembled Rangers and feeling their eyes on him. When every mistake could be deadly, when any choice could condemn someone who was relying on him – Crowley felt like he was suffocating. Perhaps he was, he thought idly, and one day he would just stop breathing while he slept.

Halt was singing softly again, this time with the words winding through the air. Just listening to him, Crowley felt his worries begin to melt away as he basked in the sound. The lyrics were oddly hopeful, for a funeral song. He felt Halt’s arm around his waist and allowed himself to be pulled closer to him. Together, they looked down at the polished stone that was all they had left of Pritchard – of their mentor, their friend. Crowley’s hand found the silver oakleaf hanging around his neck, and he held it tight, pressing into his palm with sharp insistence. The day he had received it was still fresh in his mind, despite the years – the pride he’d felt as Pritchard gave him the little pendant, a sign that he was now a Ranger, the way Halt had grinned at him, so overjoyed he couldn’t help but show it as they stood in front of the assembled corps together. It felt like a lifetime ago now. They had both been so young, he thought ruefully, and wondered when they’d left all that behind. He wondered when he’d last seen Halt smile like that, and his mind drifted to weddings and funerals and apprentices that made them feel older and younger all at once.

“He’s really gone, isn’t he?” Halt spoke, sounding tired as he snapped Crowley out of his reminicing. At the look Crowley gave him, he shrugged. “It’s hard to accept the idea that he’s never coming back.”

“I know.” He murmured. “Doesn’t feel right that he’s dead.” The world felt different – colder and harsher – without Pritchard. Silent and still, Crowley felt lost in it.

“There was one time when we were riding back to Araluan, and you and I started complaining about not having enough coffee –”

“– and he told us off for being too reliant on the comforts of civilisation. Yes!” Crowley laughed, imitating Pritchard’s voice almost perfectly. “A true Ranger needs only the land and a righteous purpose to survive.” The two of them sniggered, leaning against each other for comfort. “I tried to sneak out of camp once.” Halt snorted derisively.

“Just once?” He asked, heavy with sarcasm.

“Alright, more than once. But this particular time, Pritchard caught me, and he said he wasn’t mad, just disappointed.” Rolling his eyes, Halt shook his head. “He actually was, as well. He looked worried whenever I did anything for about a month afterwards.” Throwing his head back, Halt let out a sharp bark of laughter and then fell silent, letting his head come to rest on Crowley’s shoulder. There were some advantages, Crowley thought, to being the taller one, and he put his arm around Halt.

“I suppose we should head back.” Halt murmured. He didn’t make any attempt to move, however, more than content to stay where he was. It was unfair of him, Crowley thought, to remind him of his duties.

“Hm. I have to talk to Samdash to find out what happened.” Groaning dramatically, Halt rolled his eyes to the sky. “I know, but he was supposed to be at camp. And he’s a good Ranger.”

“He’s got an inflated idea of his own importance.” Halt grumbled.

“That’s your opinion.” Carefully keeping any trace of agreement out of his voice, Crowley turned back towards the stairs, steering Halt with him.

“It’s yours too.” He muttered, and Crowley pretended not to have heard him. They walked towards the steps slowly, weaving between graves. There were too many familiar names engraved on them. Rangers rarely died in their sleep, and when they did, it was almost never of natural causes. Everyone had lost someone, whether it be friend or mentor or lover. The thought made his breath catch in his throat.

“Don’t die.” He whispered to Halt at the entrance to the tunnel, watching the way that the golden sunlight made him almost glow.

“Alright, I won’t then.” Kissing him gently, Halt stopped where they were, in the threshold. “You can’t either, though. We’ll just be two immortal Rangers, watching over the plains for eternity.” Crowley felt like they were young again, making promises they couldn’t keep but wanted desperately to believe – nothing will change, I’ll keep you safe, nobody can hurt us here. Even so, he wanted to trust that this time it would hold true, that they could defy the laws of nature and live forever, untouched by world around them.

“I want to grow old with you.” He said and thought of a simple silver ring hidden in his saddlebags. “Well, older.”

“You’re going soft.” Halt replied lovingly, as they began the long walk up the tunnel to the Gorge.

“One of us has to.” Crowley retorted, grinning fondly.

Samdash was typically self-important when they asked him for his account of the attack, enjoying the idea that Crowley and Halt needed information that only he could provide. The fact that four branches had also been resting at camp when it was attacked did nothing to dissuade him of the notion that his own personal account of events was vitally important. Unfortunately, Samdash was also one of the most observant Rangers in the corps and tended to notice what others missed. Those details were what they needed now, and Samdash knew it.

“They attacked in broad daylight, so we had little opportunity to melt away as we would have at night. Farrel organised us into three groups – one readying the horses for escape, one packing up, and one defending. We managed to hold them off for maybe an hour. They had crossbows, mostly, but there were a few with axes and clubs.” He was saying, lounging back in a wicker chair and making it creak as it was contorted unnaturally.

“Any casualties?” Halt asked bluntly, his patience with the other Ranger stretched thin by the few minutes they’d been talking. Already shaking his head, Samdash continued.

“Norris was the hardest hit, and he just got clubbed the once on the head. They weren’t expecting us to be organised enough to escape.” An irritating note of smugness crept into his voice. Out of his peripheral vision, Crowley saw Halt roll his eyes to the heavens and stepped in before anything happened that he would regret witnessing.

“Which was thanks to Farrel. I’ll let him know that it was appreciated.” Allowing himself a small smile at the frustrated look on Samdash’s face, Crowley deflected the praise that he’d been trying to claim for himself onto Farrel – a Ranger who he admired a lot more, and who actually deserved it. “Is there anything else you can tell us?”

“Some of them were wearing a symbol or something.” Wordlessly, Halt pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket and handed it over for Samdash to draw what he’d seen. “Looked like that.” He said, passing it back with the finished product.

“Are you sure?” Halt said in a tone that was far too casual. As he passed the sketch to Crowley, Samdash looked between the two of them, trying to see what he was missing. Concealing his shock, Crowley frowned at the paper. This certainly complicated matters, he thought.

“Of course I’m sure. You think I’d make it up?” Indignant, Samdash drew himself up, standing to face Halt.

“No, he doesn’t.” Interrupting the argument before it really started, Crowley looked hard at Samdash until he backed down. He tucked the scrap of paper into his pocket, the coat of arms on it burning behind his eyes. “That will be all, Samdash. Thank you for your assistance.” He took hold of Halt’s hand, leading him away carefully until they were out of earshot. “I know this is bad.” Crowley murmured, so quiet that only Halt could hear him. “But we can’t do anything about it right now.” To his great relief, Halt nodded in agreement. He had been expecting a long argument, one he wasn’t sure he could have won.

“This won’t go away though. If they suspect –”

“I know. We’ll be careful. And if they do start to suspect, we’ll make sure the message never gets back to him.” This reassurance appeared to get through as well, and Halt’s shoulders lost their tension. Crowley breathed a small sigh of relief. The last thing either of them needed was for Halt to go on his own personal rampage right now. “Now, I suppose I’d better go and do my job.”

“I’ll fetch those mattresses.” Taking Abelard and Cropper’s reins from the post where they had been draped, Halt grimaced. “We might as well get one good night’s sleep in.” It occurred to Crowley that they had been on the move for almost two months without a solid rest. His bones ached, longing for a week or two of sleeping in a real bed. Even so, he knew that they had to bring the lost branches home, and that was far more important than whether or not he got a comfortable bed to sleep in. They were his responsibility.

“Once more unto the breach.” He muttered and went to tell the corps the bad news.


	7. The Hanged Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day?
> 
> I might be losing it, but don't worry, I'll find it again
> 
> Please enjoy/comment/kudos etc.
> 
> \- Jay

They had been riding for a month. Town to town, farm to farm, following cold trails to try and find the missing branches. Unfortunately, Rangers tended to be good at disappearing when they needed to, and no matter where they went or how fast they rode, there was no sign that any Ranger had been there by the time they arrived. It was getting frustrating. What they were currently doing was examining a charred stick in the hopes that it would give some indication of how far they were behind the group who had left it behind.

“Our problem is that we’re a large group of armed men.” Harrison remarked to Farrel. Both had remained mounted, ready to move off once the last secrets had been extracted from the charred stick. “They hear that we’re looking for them and they assume Morgarath is still hunting them.” He sighed heavily. Everyone knew what they would have to do to find the missing branches, but nobody wanted to say it. Splitting up would be dangerous, with Morgarath’s brigands getting bolder by the day and the weather beginning to turn sour.

“A lone Ranger might be able to do it, or a group of two or three.” Farrel replied. Not for the first time, Harrison was impressed at his ability to cut right to the heart of the matter. “But if we continue like this, we’ll never manage it.”

“Crowley won’t risk losing any Rangers.” Shrugging, Harrison picked Spider’s reins back up. “He’s still hung up on blaming himself for Pritchard.”

“Pritchard’s death wasn’t anybody’s fault.” He gave a small, bitter laugh in response. Sometimes he forgot that Farrel hadn’t gone raiding with them after Pritchard had died.

“You try telling him that.” Looking concerned, Farrel manoeuvred so that they both ended up a little further away from the bickering group around the charred stick.

“You’re worried about him?”

“About both of them.” Harrison felt a brief pang of guilt for talking behind Crowley and Halt’s backs about them, but reassured himself that it had to be done, and he was the one to do it. Nobody else would – definitely not Gilan or Liam or Will, and no one else had enough experience of travelling with them to know there was anything wrong. “Crowley’s assuming too much responsibility.”

“Control.” Frowning, Farrel looked over at Crowley and Halt. His train of thought was not hard to follow, replaying every not-quite-right interaction with them since Pritchard’s death and finding new context for them.

“Yes. If anything goes wrong, he blames himself. It’s eating him up inside.” The two of them went quiet again. “We need to talk to him. All of us.”

“Tell him he needs to let us help.” Farrel said. “I’ll let Berrigan know, and he can organise a sit down.” He frowned again. “What about Halt?” This time, Harrison hesitated, unsure of his wording.

“Has he – has he spoken to you at all?” There was something in Harrison’s expression that made Farrel consider it before he replied.

“Halt? No.”

“You’re sure?” He asked, searching Farrel’s expression for the slightest indicator that he might be forgetting something. There was no such sign. “Me neither. He barely talks to Gilan anymore, and he might be training the kid, but you’d never know it from the way they talk.”

“He and Crowley still talk to each other, don’t they?” Waving that aside, Harrison continued in the same low, insistent tone.

“Of course they do. They’re together. But he doesn’t talk to anyone else, unless it’s about the task at hand – and even then, he never says much.” Farrel raised his eyebrows for a moment, and then, as he filtered his memories of Halt and Crowley through this new information, realised that there was no call for him to be acting surprised and shrugged.

“Going to take more than a sit down to deal with that.” He murmured. “It’ll take a while for him to open up, no matter what we do.”

“And if we do anything, it could get worse.” Harrison sighed. They fell silent again, both grim faced as the rest of the Rangers started to mount up again. It was Liam, inevitably, who came over to inform them of what had happened.

“We’re heading south. There’s a town not too far from here that Lewin thinks they might have gone to.” Their expression told him that something had happened, neither reacting quickly enough to wipe the concern from their faces. “What’s wrong?” Harrison glanced over at Crowley, wheeling Cropper to face south, and frowned.

“I’ll tell you later.” He said.

That later never came. As it became clear that no Rangers had visited the township before them, the success of the charred stick started to fade from memory, replaced by a persistent feeling that they had achieved nothing in a full month and were wasting their time riding over the same stretches of the plains over and over again while Morgarath strengthened his hold on the surrounding areas.. Tensions built through the afternoon as they sat outside the Saloon and enjoyed a well-earned drink. True to his word, Farrel talked quietly to Berrigan, and then in turn to Lewin, Egon and Jurgen, while Harrison took Gilan to one side and explained their concerns. The young Ranger was wholly in agreement with them, obviously concerned for his ‘fathers’. Once again, Harrison felt a pang of guilt, this time because he had allowed the situation to fester, naively hoping that their grief and pain would sort itself out.

“I think we need to have a talk with you.” Berrigan said calmly that evening, while they all sat around on the veranda drinking. Looking up from his maps, Crowley frowned, evidently wondering what it was that warranted such a talk. Sat off to one side, Halt adjusted his position so as to see what was happening. Harrison watched him carefully, wondering what he was thinking, what he was planning.

“With me?” He asked, seeing the group all watching him and Berrigan with interest. “Fire away then.”

“You’re not letting anyone help you.” Before he could respond to Berrigan, Lewin continued, blunt and uncompromising in all things, whether it be a talk such as this one or a battle plan.

“Just because you’re the leader doesn’t mean you have to make all the hard choices. And it doesn’t mean that the consequences are your fault.” A murmur of agreement went around, and Crowley realised that they must have discussed this beforehand. There was relief in his eyes now, alongside the semi-permanent exhaustion that had been there since he had taken up the mantle of leader.

“Alright, point taken.” He said easily, smiling around at them with good humour. “I’ll work on that.”

“We need to split up the group.” Harrison interrupted, loath to delay any further. They had done enough delaying, he thought, frustrated.

“No. Absolutely not. Morgarath’s bandits are still out there, and any lone Ranger will be at risk of an ambush.” As Berrigan raised an eyebrow, Crowley realised he’d just contradicted his promise to let others help. He tried to push through, sticking to his position. “This isn’t about not letting people help, this is about safety. We can’t afford to lose anyone.”

“We can’t afford to not do this.” Said Gilan quietly, surprising Crowley as he disagreed with him. “Harrison’s right. We can’t find the lost branches because they hear a large, armed group is looking for them and they melt away. It’s what any of us would do in their place.”

“But smaller groups – ones or twos – wouldn’t get them as concerned. Then we’d have a chance of bringing them home.” Harrison insisted, taking back over as Gilan sat back again. There wasn’t really an argument that Crowley could make to dispute this – it was true, and they all knew it. There would be a risk, but they were Rangers. They had all known about the risk when they signed up. None of them would back out now.

“If we split up, some of us could infiltrate Morgarath’s staff and find out his plans.” There was a ripple of surprise as they realised it was Halt speaking, backing them up. He looked meaningfully at Crowley, who appeared to deflate slightly. They’d won, Harrison realised, with a start.

“We’ll do it then.” Sighing with something a lot like relief, Crowley sat back. “Halt and Will can try and find out more about Morgarath’s plans and –”

“I’d like to recommend Liam for that too.” Harrison said, cutting in. From out of the corner of his eye, he saw Liam sit bolt upright all of a sudden, looking excited at the prospect of being given this important task. He smiled to himself at that show of enthusiasm. “He’s got a gift for getting people to talk, and, as he keeps reminding me, he’s not a kid anymore.” His apprentice beamed at him, overjoyed, and Harrison felt warm inside as Crowley nodded.

“Sounds sensible. Liam, Halt, and Will then. The rest of you can organise as you see fit, in either on your own or with one other Ranger, and make sure you’re all heading in different directions.” Pointing at the map stretched out in front of him, Crowley looked around at them. “I’ll be heading to Araluan to talk to my contacts there.” Harrison nodded, content to let Crowley take over the details of splitting the group, as long as he knew they would be keeping an eye on him to make sure he didn’t try to take on too much. He realised, as everyone began to talk among themselves, that Halt was sat alone and silent once again, looking from Ranger to Ranger with his dark, steady gaze. Frowning, he considered that Farrel had been right. That would take a lot more than a sit down to deal with.

Over the next three days, they decided that Berrigan and Lewin would go west, along with Egon, who would leave them to go to the town of Norgate. Harrison would go north, towards Picta, while Gilan would head south. Farrel and Jurgen were covering the eastern plains, and with Crowley heading for Araluan, they were all confident of their ability to hunt down the missing branches. Spread out like this, they could cover more ground faster, and that was exactly what had been holding them back in the month they had spent in the saddle so far. The prospect of more hard riding was not one that anyone was looking forward to, but a few nights sleep on the Saloon’s soft mattresses helped to quell some of the grumbling. Once they had found the branches, of course, they would head back to the Gorge, where any returning team could be assured of a hero’s welcome – and a warm meal, which tended to motivate the Rangers more consistently.

Harrison was still very aware that Halt was holding back, keeping some secret from them, but he forced himself to ignore this worrying behaviour in favour of preparing Spider for the long ride to Picta, aware that the ride north would take a toll on both horse and rider. Even so, he couldn’t help but notice the way he frowned towards the east sometimes, eyes looking beyond the horizon to some distant land.

“Perhaps he’s homesick.” Liam suggested, when Harrison mentioned his concerns. “Ireland is east of here, isn’t it?” Frowning, Harrison allowed himself to consider it properly before answering. Simply dismissing Liam’s ideas out of hand would be doing him a disservice. While he didn’t think about Halt’s past much, he was aware that he came from Ireland – with that accent, he could hardly be from anywhere else – and that he’d left on his own under mysterious circumstances. Homesickness didn’t fit into the story that Harrison had constructed in his own mind, which involved a stolen horse, a bad home life, and a romance gone wrong.

“He never talks about Ireland.” He said eventually, unable to keep the uncertainty out of his voice. This didn’t appear to dissuade his apprentice in the slightest. Shrugging, Liam saw Will emerging from the Saloon in a new poncho and bounced a little on the balls of his feet.

“He never talks about anything.” He wasn’t wrong, Harrison thought ruefully. “It’s probably nothing.” Again, he shrugged, and, after patting Harrison comfortingly on the shoulder, jogged over to greet Will, who looked extremely proud of his new attire. Watching him run off, Harrison frowned. If he knew Halt at all, then he knew that it wasn’t nothing. And if he knew anything at all about human behaviour, then he knew that whatever it was, it would come back to bite them sooner or later. Still, Harrison was a practical man first and foremost, and, faced with a problem he could neither solve nor understand, he decided to leave it until a later date, and instead direct his energy to worrying about what he could control.

Liam and Will were buzzing with excitement at the idea of working to infiltrate Morgarath’s staff. Their enthusiasm amused most of the Rangers, who were reminded of their own apprenticeships by the enthusiastic pair as they bounced around the township. Harrison, however, was doing his level best not to be worried about his apprentice. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust him to do well – quite the opposite, he was certain that Liam would excel at this espionage – but despite his trust in Liam’s skills, Harrison couldn’t help but feel concern. He was leaving the nest for the first time, so to speak, and Harrison felt a little like an anxious mother hen. It was not a feeling he enjoyed or was used to by any stretch of the imagination. Harrison was used to feelings like practicality, satisfaction at a job well done, and clear headedness. There was nothing whatsoever that was practical or clear headed about fussing over Liam, particularly when he knew perfectly well that he would do a good job on this his first solo mission. Not just a good job, he mentally amended with a smile, but an outstanding one. Pride swelled in his chest at the thought. Liam was going to be a credit to the corps, he was certain of it. He possessed all the qualities that made a good Ranger, as well as those that made a good man. Harrison couldn’t have been prouder of him if he was his own son and sometimes – more often than he liked to admit even to himself – he thought of Liam as if her were just that. After all, Harrison was under no illusions that he would one day settle down and have a family of his own. That ship had sailed long ago, and now he found himself happily tethered to life as a Ranger until the day he died, hopefully in some blaze of glory that would ensure he went down in history. Sighing at himself, he stood up from the wooden decking. The midday sun was beating down on the street before him, not as powerful as it had been in previous months, but still a force to be reckoned with. The seasons are turning, he thought, dusting himself off, and went inside to pack.   
  
After all, there was no point moping around outside when he could be doing something useful.


	8. The Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey hey folks!
> 
> Ok my aim with this chapter was to take a background character and give them so much personality that they became your new favourite Ranger. Let me know if I succeeded!
> 
> \- Jay

Most Rangers would not, upon riding into a town, pilfer their gunpowder supplies. Most Rangers would not, upon leaving that town and camping out in the surrounding plains, light that selfsame gunpowder on fire, creating a signal a mile high with explosions that could be heard across the plains. Most Rangers were not Jurgen Smithstone, terror of the eastern plains. Jurgen was not tall. They were shorter even than Farrel, who was most often compared to an angry dwarf. Despite their height, Jurgen was considered an intimidating figure, with a quick temper and a slightly skewed sense of humour that was often turned against others in revenge. Jurgen rolled through life as a one-person riot, feared by sheriffs and barkeeps everywhere, with a flask of high-quality scotch at their hip and an ever-present laugh.

Jurgen Smithstone made fireworks in their spare time, and usually aimed them at the sky. Jurgen Smithstone would punch anyone who tried to give them a gender and was known for pulling a knife in bar fights or challenging law enforcers to duels that they had no chance of winning. Jurgen Smithstone was one of the best archers in the corps despite losing the first two fingers on his right hand to a particularly old-fashioned Sherriff after an incident involving two goats and a duel with a member of his posy. Jurgen Smithstone was fiery and angry and would do anything to not be bored. In short, Jurgen Smithstone was something of a legend among the youngsters in the Ranger corps and had also become a cautionary tale amongst the Sherrifs of the plains where Rangers travelled.

Currently, Jurgen Smithstone was crouched behind a rocky outcrop with Farrel, watching the sky above them as it was lit up by the combined efforts of three burning barrels of gunpowder. They laughed, loud and joyful, as a particularly loud bang went off, sending a plank of wood whistling over their heads. Next to him, Farrel was muttering curses and prayers alike, looking extremely stressed by the situation. Jurgen grinned, still laughing. No matter how much time their teammates spent around them and their unorthodox methods, they never entirely got used to Jurgen’s explosive ideas.

Farrel swore creatively, flinching away from another flying plank of wood. Still laughing, Jurgen waited for the explosions to die down. Once they could hear the rapid-fire cursing from Farrel again, Jurgen stood up, vaulting over the outcrop, and approached the bonfire.

“What the shit did you do that for?” Farrel asked, following them gingerly.

“They know where we are now.” They shrugged, stacking broken bits of barrel by the roaring fire to use to keep it burning later. There would be no point letting it burn out later in the night after such a display now.

“Exactly! How are we meant to find them when they know we’re following them?” Flinching again as another bang went off, Farrel looked towards the town that they’d left their horses in. “And how are we meant to catch them when we don’t have our horses?”

“Calm down.” Jurgen replied, which was a little ironic coming from the person who had, for all intents and purposes, just tried their level best to blow up the sky. “Think about it. If you were in the middle of nowhere with the rest of our branch, and you heard a massive explosion behind you, what would you do?” They sat down next to the fire, dragging their pack with them and beginning to take out their bedroll and food supplies.

“I’d send you to go and look, seeing as you’re such an expert.” Even as he said it, Farrel realised that Jurgen had come up with a good plan, and he groaned at the prospect of their gloating.

“Exactly!” Grinning somewhat manically, Jurgen gestured all around them. “All we need to do is wait here and talk loudly about how we’re Rangers, and they’ll come to us.” It was a good, if not flawless, plan. Jurgen couldn’t help but feel a little smug, knowing that Farrel wouldn’t be able to come up with a reason to tell them off for this one. Finally, their companion sat down next to them, pulling out his own bedroll and laying it out on the dirt. Together, they sat in silence, watching the colours of the fire play out across the surrounding landscape.

“Warn me next time.” Farrel muttered a little petulantly. Privately, Jurgen thought this took the fun out of things, but they decided not to voice these thoughts out loud. Perhaps it wouldn’t be the best idea to annoy Farrel too much, particularly with that battle-axe so close at hand. They settled for nodding reassuringly and shuffling just out of reach. Every crackle and pop of the bonfire they had created sounded incredibly loud in the emptiness of the plains. Rangers tended to be sneaky by nature, and while Jurgen thought of themselves as the exception to that rule, they still felt tension creeping up their next with every successive minute that no Rangers came looking to see what had caused the explosions.

The unspoken flaw in their plan – that both Jurgen and Farrel were trying hard not to think about – was, or course, that they were not the only ones out on the plains looking for Rangers. If Morgarath’s bandits found their fire first, then the two of them would be hard pressed to escape, particularly without horses – and that was without factoring in the fact that the Sheriff whose gunpowder they had stolen would also be eager to locate them and bring them in. Jurgen had elected to leave the horses in town while they rolled three barrels of gunpowder out from under the nose of the Sheriff, primarily because even Rebel, their own mount, got nervous around loud noises, and they didn’t fancy accidentally deafening either of their horses or having them bolt into the endless expanse of the plains as the first barrel caught light. That wouldn’t be fair on the horses, apart from anything else. There hadn’t really been another option, they knew, but still, it rankled that they were separated. Like all Rangers, Jurgen thought of their horse as a good friend, almost an extension of their own being. Not having Rebel by their side made the plains feel a little harsher, a little more dangerous, a little lonelier.

“Well this is boring.” They said eventually, amused by the concerned look that Farrel threw their way.

“Don’t blow anything else up.” Laughing, Jurgen grinned in a way that wasn’t reassuring in the slightest. “Perhaps we should try and get some sleep. You can take the first watch, seeing as it’s your plan.” Before they could protest, Farrel had dropped back onto his bedroll and dragged their one blanket over himself. Within seconds, he was breathing deeply and evenly, and Jurgen scowled. They’d been hoping for a conversation or perhaps even a game of cards. Even a sparring session would have been preferable to being assigned the first watch and left alone in the waking world, bored out of their mind.

“Dammit, Farrel.” They muttered, standing up in one smooth motion. Jurgen took some of the jerky from their pack and wandered off a few meters, sitting down some way outside the circle of light thrown by the bonfire. Chewing on one strip of jerky and idly considering a way to be revenged upon Farrel for giving them the first watch, Jurgen began to watch the plains for any sign of movement.

For several hours, there was nothing. Even the wind was still as Jurgen kept watch, the night quiet and lonely – the antithesis of everything Jurgen stood for. They wanted to move, to do something, anything, to break up the monotony of the watch. And then something happened.

“Is that Jurgen?” Someone shouted, and they looked up to see a figure riding towards the bonfire on horseback. They stood up, waving frantically.

“Here! Over here!” The rider dismounted, running the last few meters and embracing Jurgen tightly.

“Good to see you!” He said, taking a step back and looking them up and down. “You look exhausted.”

“We’ve been looking for you lot for months.” Recognising Leander, it dawned on them that they’d found the tenth branch. “Farrel and I are here to take you home.”

“Just the two of you?” Leander looked concerned. “Is there anyone else left?”

“There were five branches at the Gorge. Three are raiding right now.” They replied, leading Leander closer to the bonfire. As they entered the circle of firelight, Leander’s features came into focus. He was one of the taller Rangers, good natured and usually up for a prank. What he was most known for, however, was an incident a few years prior when he’d outrun a mounted patrol on foot, managing to keep ahead of them for four days before the rest of his branch arrived to reinforce him.

“Where are the other four?” Passing the coffee pot that had been keeping warm by the fire to Leander, Jurgen shrugged.

“Crowley took the rest of us out looking for you lot.” As Leander pulled a tin cup from his saddlebags and poured himself a generous amount of coffee, Jurgen woke Farrel, making sure to stay out of arm reach. “They found us.” As he sat up, reaching automatically in the direction of the coffee, Farrel nodded blearily at Leander in greeting.

“We couldn’t very well miss you with that thing lighting up the plains for miles around.” Leander jerked a thumb in the direction of their bonfire, smiling.

“Told you it would work.” Letting smugness creep into their voice again, Jurgen smirked at Farrel. They realised suddenly that they were showing off for Leander and eyed the lanky Ranger to see if he had been impressed by Jurgen’s idea.

“Your fireworks managed to get our attention, alright. We’ve been travelling by night, so we were just setting off when you decided to set the sky on fire.” With a glance toward the direction he had ridden in from, Leander smiled. “I’m just glad we decided to investigate.”

“You think those are fireworks?” Jurgen’s thoughts drifted to their own personal supply of flash-bangs, stored safely in Rebel’s saddlebags. “I can show you fireworks like you’d never believe.” They added with a flirtatious smirk that Leander returned enthusiastically. Just out of earshot, Farrel muttered something sarcastic to himself.

“Hm.” Now that he had a cup of coffee in his hands, Farrel’s mood appeared to be improving. “We left our horses in town, so unless you’ve got room on yours for three, we’re stuck here for the night.” His smile broadening into a grin, Leander winked at them both.

“We might be able to do something about that.” Letting out an ear-piercing whistle, he waited for a moment, listening for a response. For a long moment, there was silence, and then a quiet drumming sound. Hoofbeats, Jurgen realised, beginning to smile as well. The sound grew louder and louder until, bursting dramatically over the exact same ridge that Farrel and Jurgen had been hiding behind earlier that night, the tenth branch rode as one into the firelight.

As they rode back to the Gorge, the Rangers were in good spirits. Accompanied by Jurgen and Farrel, the tenth branch planned their triumphant return as they made their way across the plains in a leisurely fashion. They even managed to find time to get kicked out of three separate towns on their way home, mostly due to the combined efforts of Jurgen and Leander. As it turned out, while they hadn’t even been particularly close in the past, Leander and Jurgen made a great team – or a terrible one, depending on whose opinion was being sought at the time. A betting pool had even sprung up as to whether or not the two would get together by the time they reached the Gorge or not.

It was a boisterous group that rode into the Gorge, therefore, one morning in late November. Farrel rode ahead of them, emerging into the cavern first to see the reduced group of Rangers milling around. From what he could see, there was only one branch present, the rest presumably raiding the wealthier of the surrounding ranches and farms.

“Looks like we’re the first back.” Jurgen murmured, dismounting. Secretly, they had hoped that the others would have returned by now. It had been a risky idea to split up, and they were worried about their friends, roaming the plains without backup, at risk of ambush with every turn they made. They’d been avoiding thinking about it too much on the way back, with the celebrating and drinking that had been going on. The group had been extremely lucky, they knew, not to run into any of Morgarath’s brigands while returning to the Gorge, and they doubted that all of their friends, scattered across the plains, had been so lucky.

“Excellent. More time to rest.” Said Leander in an overly chirpy voice that only highlighted his worry at seeing how few Rangers were there. It was a worry that all the others shared. Usually, at least two or three branches would be resting at any one time. Now, however, there were only two Rangers visible as they rode in. The Gorge was oddly quiet, almost sinister with so few inhabitants. “We’ll get our camp set up, and then you can show me some of those fireworks you promised.” Winking at Jurgen, he left them standing where they were, leading his branch away to find a suitable campsite for their needs.

“Damn.” They murmured admiringly, watching him go, and Farrel rolled his eyes so hard that Jurgen was a little surprised he didn’t strain anything.

“The last thing we need is another pair of lovebirds in the corps.” Grumbling good naturedly, but with no real malice, he also dismounted, walking alongside Jurgen as they made their way to their previous campsite. Behind the pair, their horses followed, seeming to have their own conversation as well. “You two are ridiculous.” With a laugh, Jurgen smirked smugly at his friend and companion.

“The difference is, we’re the hot couple.” This statement only provoked further grumbling – which, to be fair, it had been designed to do.

“That’s debateable.” Farrel muttered, which Jurgen elected graciously to ignore, rather than gracing him with a response. They walked in silence for a moment, and then Jurgen spoke up again.

“I was joking. We’re not – it’s just flirting. For now.” Nodding understandingly, Farrel gave them a pat on the shoulder that was probably meant to be comforting, but in fact ended up nearly knocking Jurgen flat.

“I know. And we’ll stick by you, even if you do decide to get with some lanky runner.” Jurgen grinned, happy to have the support of their friends expressed out loud, even if they’d already known they would stick with them through anything. They were home, they thought, and it had never felt so good.


	9. Ten of Swords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to apologise to you all. Sorry. You have every right to hate me.
> 
> that being said, feel free to comment below letting me know exactly how much you hate me.
> 
> \- Jay

Gilan was being followed. He was only moderately upset about this – it certainly wasn’t the first time that he’d found himself with an unwanted shadow, and this particular one wasn’t much good at his job. Unfortunately, he couldn’t figure out a way to shake this one off without leaving himself open to an attack. At least now, as he was being shepherded into an offensively obvious trap, he knew where the enemy was. And there were many opportunities for traps and ambushes in these parts. As Gilan travelled further north, the plains broke up into cliffs and canyons and plateaus, creating narrow paths where he was surrounded by walls of insurmountable rock. Any corner could be hiding an attack, and as he got closer to Picta, the threat only grew. The townspeople were notoriously suspicious of outsiders, and it was not unusual for nearby travellers to be warded off with attacks as they got closer to the town. Picta itself was nestled in the side of the canyon, half carved out of the banded rock. It had been built to be defended from invasion – once Gilan reached it, if Gilan reached it, he knew we would be safe. It was the getting there that would be the challenge.

Technically, he had already completed his mission. The seventh branch was already heading back to the Gorge, having been reassured of their safety and the continued existence of the rest of the Ranger corps. Gilan could have been heading back with them, on his way to a comfortable night’s sleep in the closest thing he had to a home. Instead, he was winding his way through dangerous territory to reach possibly the most hostile town he had ever visited. It would all be worth it, he reassured himself. Lewis was more than worth it.

About five years ago, Gilan had met Lewis in a seedy bar in New York. A refugee from Nepal, where British soldiers had killed his parents, Lewis had been trying to make his way as a doctor and, in the process, had got on the wrong side of one too many people and found out exactly how hostile the big city could be. Gilan had taken time off from his mission to help the handsome young man, and once he was able to return to the plains, he’d offered Lewis the opportunity to come with him – which Lewis had accepted eagerly. They’d seen each other frequently in the years that followed, Gilan finding more than enough excuses to visit the medical practice that Lewis had set up. That was, until Pritchard died. The visits had stopped all too suddenly, and Lewis had moved away shortly afterwards, unwilling to be caught in the crossfire.

Gilan missed him more than breathing, more than the sun or the moon or water – which was why he was continuing on his way to Picta. When they’d parted the last time, he hadn’t properly realised how important Lewis was to him. He intended to rectify that this time. On his way north, before he’d gained his shadow, Gilan had planned grand speeches to Lewis, big gestures to show him exactly how much he loved him.

He sighed heavily, noting the position of the sun. They wouldn’t reach Picta that day. Soon, darkness would fall over them, and he and Blaze would have to stop and spend another restless night in these sinister canyons.

_The other horse is getting closer_. Blaze warned him. Despite the situation, Gilan smiled. To Blaze, the horse would always be more important than its rider.

“Thank you.” He replied. Nobody could hear him talking to his horse out here – one of the few benefits of solo missions like these. Nudging Blaze into a faster canter to increase the distance again, he considered riding through the night to get to Picta the following morning, not giving the rider behind him a chance to catch up. One glance at the road ahead of them, littered with rocks of varying sizes and treacherous underfoot even in daylight, dissuaded him of the idea. He wouldn’t put Blaze at risk like that, no matter how desperate the situation got. As the sun sank lower, eventually dipping below the cliffs towering above them on either side, Gilan and Blaze slowed, eventually coming to a stop by a particularly large boulder that would provide them with shelter if any attack came during the night.

_They’ve stopped behind the bend._ Rattling his mane, Blaze found a more comfortable spot and lay down. Gilan removed his bridle and saddle, draping them over a nearby boulder.

“I know.” He frowned. “We’ll have a fire tonight. They already know we’re here, so there’s no point hiding.”

_Good. I’m freezing._

“Me too, buddy.” As Gilan went about setting up camp – gathering firewood from the stunted bushes huddled against the cliff faces, feeding and watering Blaze, and using the last of his coffee supply to make himself a cup – he couldn’t help but glance at the road behind them, as if expecting a whole host of armed soldiers to emerge at any moment.

_You’ll crick your neck._ Blaze sounded oddly like Halt for a moment, and Gilan wondered if he was going mad, talking to his horse.

“Just keeping alert.” Throwing one final glance over his shoulder, Gilan sat down by the small campfire. “These canyons are driving me crazy.”

_I haven’t noticed that you’re any different._ Sounding amused with himself, Blaze shook his mane again. _Just get some sleep, and we can get to Picta tomorrow. You need to buy some fresh oats._ With a supressed yawn, Gilan realised that Blaze was probably right. He needed the rest, especially if there was to be an attack. His reactions would be dulled and his mind sluggish if he spent another sleepless night watching over his shoulder for an ambush that might never materialise. If he managed to sleep through the night, he would be refreshed and then, if he did end up fighting, he would have a much better chance of survival.

“Keep watch for me.” Gilan was asleep before he had even finished speaking, slumping against a boulder as he demonstrated the extraordinary ability most Rangers shared to fall asleep at the drop of a hat, wherever and whenever they might be.

Just before sunrise, Blaze woke him with his gentle, nervous whinnying.

_There are more horses._

“Shit.” He said, with feeling, pouring the cold dregs of the coffee pot into his tin cup and draining it in one gulp with a shudder. “They’re definitely attacking today then.”

_If they can catch us._ Blaze snorted, standing up. As the first light of dawn filtered down to the road, Gilan saddled him and made sure his tack was well adjusted and comfortable.

“It’s going to be a hard ride today, buddy.” Stroking his neck comfortingly, Gilan frowned at the bend in the road behind them.

_I can outrun those lumps any day._ With a laugh, Gilan packed the coffee pot into the saddle bags, looking around to determine that all his possessions were stored.

“I know you can.” There was no point in waiting any longer. Avoiding the task at hand would only make it less likely that they would reach Picta by sunset, so Gilan swung up into the saddle and pressed his knees to Blaze’s flanks. “Now, let’s show them that.” They took off into a gallop, Blaze accelerating away from standing with all the sudden speed of an arrow loosed from the bow. For the most part, Gilan kept the reins loose, trusting Blaze to find his footing on the uneven ground below them while he hung on. Behind them, a low and constant drumming spoke of the increased numbers of riders following. But they were gaining ground, Blaze’s superior stamina and speed distancing them from the riders as they rode onwards. Hope started to bloom in Gilan’s chest as he allowed himself to believe that they would escape, that they could slip through the net and ride into Picta unscathed. They didn’t stop for food and water at midday, prioritising constant movement over refuelling. Gilan knew it was a lot to ask of Blaze to keep up this punishing pace all day, but he still clung to the hope that if they could just keep going, keep riding as hard as possible, keep drawing ahead of their pursuers, then they would be safe in Picta. Lewis would vouch for him to stay, and they could wait there until the riders got bored or ran out of supplies and left.

_This would be easier on the plains._ Blaze grumbled, dodging another boulder at the last moment.

“We wouldn’t have to do this on the plains.” He replied, gritting his teeth and holding on with his thighs as they continued at breakneck speed down the narrow, twisting road. “I’m sorry, buddy.”

_I deserve at least five apples for this._ Chuckling despite himself, Gilan attempted to nod and nearly slipped sideways in the saddle.

“I’ll buy you a whole barrel of apples in Picta. Promise.” It might have been his imagination, but Blaze seemed to accelerate even further, stride lengthening infinitesimally.

It seemed cruel that they got so far. Gilan could see the gates of Picta ahead of them, shining in the dying sunlight. Between him and those gates, however, were five bandits, dressed all in black, and pointing crossbows at Blaze.

“Down!” He yelled, kicking his legs free of the stirrups and leaping clear as Blaze followed the instruction, coming to a sudden stop and rolling sideways onto the ground. Once the first round of bolts had been fired into the space where they had been only moments previously, Blaze got back up, following Gilan to the relative shelter created by the larger rocks at the base of one cliff. There, he lay down again, hidden from view and protected from danger. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Gilan was saying over and over again, nocking an arrow to his bow with hands that didn’t shake despite the situation. He took a deep, steadying breath, and then stood up, firing twice before he dropped down again. Three crossbow bolts followed him, clattering off the rocks with a shower of sparks. “Right. They know where we are.” Looking over the top once again, he attracted another bolt fired their way. This was a terrible situation to be stuck in. Eventually, he would run out of arrows, and then they would be dead. All the bandits needed to do was get lucky once, and he would go down with a crossbow bolt in his chest. If they managed to drag this out long enough, then the riders would catch up, and then he would be even more outnumbered, pinned down so close to safety without being able to reach it.

_What now?_ Blaze asked, huffing gently.

“I don’t know.” The admission scared Gilan more than he would ever admit. “I’m sorry buddy, I just don’t know.”

The exchange of arrows went on until the sun sunk below the cliffs, casting them into darkness. Soon after, the riders that had been following them rounded the corner and came clattering into view. Their chances were dwindling, Gilan knew. Every minute that passed only confirmed it further.

The lights from Picta were burning brightly not too far away. One of those lights, he thought, could belong to Lewis. Gilan desperately wanted to see Lewis again before it was all over. That was what sealed the decision in his mind. They couldn’t just stay put, and if they were doomed either way, Gilan would much rather go down doing something, rather than sitting and waiting for death to come to him.

“We’re going to try and sneak past.” He whispered to Blaze as quietly as physically possible. “They might not see us if we go slowly and quietly.” There was no reply as Blaze rose slowly to his feet, picking his way carefully around to the left, closer to the gate. Gilan didn’t bother mounting, trusting to stealth over potential speed as he stuck close to Blaze’s flank, keeping one hand resting on his horse’s neck – a source of comfort for both of them. Step by cautious step, they made their way around the bandits, barely able to see the ground in front of them or the cliffs on either side of them. The burning lights of Picta shone out, a beacon in the darkness, seeming to summon them. The gate got closer with every movement, tantalisingly near now – he could see the intricate carvings in the wood. They had got between the bandits and the town, he thought to himself, and now it was only these last few meters to cross and they would be safe once more. He’d get to see Lewis again, Gilan thought, with a rush of joy. Despite everything, he was going to see Lewis again, and then everything would be alright, and he wouldn’t need to worry about anything ever again. Except the gates were shut. He couldn’t stop now, but Gilan felt panic threatening to break through. As soon as he called for the guards to let them in, the bandits would know where they were. He shook the thought away, continuing forwards with Blaze and forcing himself to believe that they would make it.

Then it all went wrong again.

“They’re getting away!” Someone called, and, pushing Blaze away from him to keep the horse from the line of fire, Gilan drew an arrow from the quiver at his hip, turning, sighting and firing in seconds. In the dim uneven light, he missed, and felt shame rise in him as he realised. The arrow had gone astray, skittering along the cliff face. In the light of the sparks trailing behind the broad arrowhead, Gilan saw the bandits and felt a thrill of fear. They had seen him too – all of them were now looking at him, the two remaining crossbowmen beginning to aim as he turned and ran for the gate, stumbling on the unseen rocks in his path. Somewhere off to the right, Blaze neighed encouragement, hidden amongst the boulders and shadows from both Gilan and the bandits. In his mind, Gilan pleaded with a god he didn’t really believe in to keep them both safe.

“Open the gate! Let us in!” He yelled at the top of his lungs, hoping beyond hope that the guards would manage to do so before it was too late. There was a deathly silence in the wake of his shouting. Breath catching in his throat, Gilan broke through to the stretch of clear ground in the last meter before the gate. For half a moment, he believed he’d made it.

And then the sinister hiss-smack of a crossbow bolt hitting home sliced through the tension and silence. Gilan stumbled and fell, not understanding where the extra momentum had come from. His back burned with pain, seeping through his body as he managed to connect the pieces. “Oh.” He whispered and went ominously still.


	10. Seven of Swords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks!
> 
> So, this chapter is not as heavy as the last one, but I have to warn you, none of them are going to be fluffy from this point on. 
> 
> Enjoy?
> 
> \- Jay

“What will we be looking for?” Will asked, as they sat by the campfire in the early morning sun. Two days earlier, Liam had split off to find his own way into Morgarath’s lands. Since then, Halt and Will had slowed the pace, taking more time each day to train and prepare, making sure that they were ready for their infiltration before taking it on. Though he didn’t show it on the outside, Halt was worried about taking Will with him.

“Our job is to find evidence of his plans.” He replied, sounding a little frustrated. After all, Halt had explained this at least five times already on their journey so far. But Will was already shaking his head, opening his mouth to explain his question.

“What kind of evidence? And what plans?” Not for the first time, Halt wondered how Will could come up with so many questions in such a short amount of time.

“Letters from his allies.” After a moment of deliberation, Halt decided to tell the truth – or at least a part of it for now. It wouldn’t make any sense for Will to go in blind.

“Who would want to ally with Morgarath?” Will’s eyes were wide with disbelief. Feeling a little sick, Halt took a long drink from his coffee. He’d been avoiding that particular question and questions like it since they’d left the Gorge. Questions that would mean he would have to lie to Will. Questions that got altogether too close to talking about Ferris.

“That’s what we’re going to find out.” Relying on his grim demeanour to cover the white lie, Halt glared at the perimeter fence on the horizon that marked the beginning of Morgarath’s land. It appeared to work for a few moments, as Will fell silent, drinking his coffee quietly.

“Did you know Morgarath?” The boy asked suddenly. Coughing into his tin cup, Halt tried not to reveal how much the question had got to him.

“Why do you ask?” He said eventually, eyeing Will suspiciously.

“Gilan said you hate him.” The tone in his voice was almost amusing, as if hating Morgarath was something big and serious. Halt took a moment to consider his answer, aware that Will would be hanging off his every word. That was the downside of having and apprentice, he thought. They tended to think he had important things to say.

“I do hate him.” That was easy, he supposed. Easy, to hate Morgarath with his entire being. Sometimes, it felt like the easiest thing in the world. “He’s a thief, and a coward, and a murderer.”

“Because he killed Pritchard?” The mention of his former mentor caught Halt off guard. Half-truths and white lies, he thought. As usual, that was the way to go.

“No, not because he killed Pritchard. That was – there’s always a risk when we go raiding. I shouldn’t have suggested we target Morgarath’s herds. Not when I knew how dangerous he was.” Guilt crept into his voice, insidious as it seeped through him. He could almost feel Pritchard’s eyes on him, judging him. Halt was under no delusions about who’s fault his mentor’s death had been – he blamed himself entirely for that and struggled alone under the weight of all the regrets that came with that knowledge. That was the closest that Halt allowed himself to get to self-loathing. Any closer, he knew, and he would drown in it. It was a luxury he could not afford to indulge in.

“Oh.” Said Will, looking down at his own coffee. Unwilling to say more, Halt let the silence stretch out.

“We should get going.” He said eventually, standing up. “I’ll saddle the horses, you clean up.” Will nodded, gathering up the cups. “Before we go in, I want you to talk me through the story again.” If their cover was broken, then they would be in real danger – particularly if there were any of Ferris’s men there. If word got back to his brother that he was indeed alive – Halt didn’t want to think about it. It would mean leaving behind everything he’d built with the Rangers, leaving Crowley and Gilan and Will – who he was becoming fond of already. If Ferris even suspected he was alive, then he would do anything to kill him, rather than risk Halt returning to Clomnel.

“I’m Will, you’re my uncle Arratay, we’re looking for a job in the kitchens. We used to work in a Saloon, but it was burned down by Rangers.” Will repeated, frowning slightly. “Why would Rangers burn down a Saloon?”

“Depends on the Ranger, depends on the Saloon. That’s not the point. The point is, we’re more likely to get in if they think we’re hostile to Rangers.” Fitting Abelard’s bridle carefully, Halt didn’t take his eyes off his task to respond.

“Why do you get a different name?”

“Because Morgarath knows who I am.” He replied shortly, moving on to Tug. “If he hears of a Halt working in the kitchens, he’ll get suspicious. Particularly with our history.” Laughing sharply, he looked over his shoulder to see Will looking confused. Of course, he thought, Will didn’t know about that history. Almost nobody did. “He tried to poison me.”

“Oh.” Will said. Muttering something about apprentices without a decent sense of humour, Halt swung up into the saddle.

“Let’s go.”

It didn’t seem so funny stood over a plate meant for Morgarath’s quarters. Halt knew all too well that there were many common poisons in any kitchen – he knew how to use them, too. He knew that to do so would break their cover, that they wouldn’t get the information they needed if his hand did happen to slip. Even so, a quiet voice in the back of his mind kept whispering that it would be so easy. The wrong seasoning was all it would take, and then there would be no more Morgarath. Pritchard would be avenged. Perhaps, he thought, the guilt would go away.

“Are you alright?” Snapping him out of his reverie, Will took the plate from Halt carefully, making sure that it wasn’t too hot before he held it properly

“Hm? Oh. Yes.” The choice was gone, just like that. He frowned at the plate, and then looked up at Will, attempting to clear his expression and not entirely succeeding.

“I found Morgarath’s letters.” Voice lowered, Will looked up at Halt for approval. Apprentices tended to want approval from their mentors, Halt thought dryly, smiling to himself. And Will had done well to find the letters so quickly.

“Good work.” He murmured and saw Will’s face light up at the praise. “We’ll deal with that tonight.” Beaming, Will bounced a little on his feet, almost skipping out of the kitchen with the plate. As Halt watched him go, he couldn’t help but feel a little worried. They were deep in enemy territory now, and every time they were separated, he worried that Will wouldn’t come back. He couldn’t wait to ride away from this strange dark house and never look back.

Morgarath’s office was dark, with a high vaulted ceiling. As with the rest of his house, the design looked like it had been plucked from medieval England and then placed haphazardly in the heat of the plains. In the centre, a carved wooden desk sat, an imposing, hulking shadow in the night. But Halt was also a shadow in the night, and he slipped across the open room without a sound, quick and quiet as a breath of air. Will stood by the door, watching for anyone who might disturb them. Earlier in the evening, he and Halt had saddled Abelard and Tug, and now the two horses were standing just outside the perimeter, ready for a quick escape. Halt opened the top drawer on the right, and then closed it and opened the second. A pile of letters sat there, folded neatly. Halt took them all without looking too closely. He closed the drawer carefully, making sure that nothing was disturbed other than the letters, which he tucked inside his waistcoat, keeping them smooth and uncrumpled for future reading.

“Let’s leave.” He was crossing the room back to Will when he spotted it – a letter that hadn’t been with the others. A letter with an all too familiar crest on it. Gliding silently over to the bookshelf, Halt took it and automatically unfolded it, scanning down the paper. “Shit.” Reading through it again, he swore once more with feeling. “Shit.” It was from Ferris. What was more, Halt himself was the subject of this letter. Which meant not only that he and Morgarath were working together – that much had already been clear from the crest Samdash had spotted on the soldiers attacking their camp – but also that Ferris knew he was alive. The sick feeling that curdled in his stomach every time he thought of his brother returned, stronger than ever. He didn’t want to have to leave everything behind – to have to go and hide in France or Italy for the rest of his life.

“Halt?” Will sounded nervous, glancing towards the hallway. Someone was approaching. In his frustration, Halt had almost forgotten where they were.

“Here. Out the window.” Crossing back over the room in a few long strides, Halt climbed half out the window, sitting on the ledge as he beckoned Will. “Quickly.” He lifted Will over the ledge and helped him down the other side before dropping down himself, light as a cat on his feet. Silently, they moved across the open ground towards the perimeter fence, avoiding the guards with ease. Once they reached the horses, Halt took a moment to stow the letters before mounting. Then, they simply fled, riding at full tilt until the sun rose over behind them, casting their shadows long and misshapen ahead, as if pointing the way to the Gorge. Home, Halt thought, longing to be back there, wishing that he could fly back on the wind and never leave again. He wondered if he would ever stop thinking of the Gorge as home, now that he would have to leave and never return.

“What was in that letter?” Will asked, as they stopped for a rest. Sighing heavily, Halt glanced towards the saddlebags, draped on the ground a few meters away. Damn Ferris, he thought.

“Bad news.” He replied, in a tone that discouraged further questioning – one he had all but perfected. “I need to get it to Crowley as fast as possible.” Nodding, Will looked down at his cold jerky. For a few long moments he remained silent, deep in thought.

“Halt?” Again, he sighed, and wondered once more how Will was able to come up with so many questions. Thinking back on it, he couldn’t quite remember if Gilan had asked so many questions as an apprentice. It was unfair, he reminded himself, to compare them to one another. That would be like comparing children – not that he thought of his apprentices as his children. That, he thought, would be a sign that he was going soft, and that was Crowley’s job. He was meant to be the stern dad. Expect, of course, not a dad because he absolutely did not think of his apprentices as his children.

“Yes?” Halt said, sounding somewhat more frustrated than he had meant to. As soon as he saw the hurt look on Will’s face, he regretted it. After all, he was in no way responsible for Halt’s bad mood. That blame rested entirely with his bastard of a twin brother.

“There was another letter – I think it was a letter. Sheriff Arald gave it to you, the day before I decided to join the Rangers. What was in that?” To Will’s surprise, Halt smiled. It even reached his eyes a little, something like pride in his expression.

“I wondered when you’d ask about that.” He said quietly, still smiling a little. “It’s in the front pocket of the saddlebags. You can read it if you want.” A look of suspicion passed over Will’s face, wondering if this was a test, and was then replaced quickly by curiosity and excitement as he scrambled over to fetch the report. As he read it, hastily scanning over the details, Will’s excitement was replaced by confusion.

“It’s just about me.” Speaking at last, Will turned the sheets over multiple times, as if convinced he’d missed something. “My lessons, how I’d got into trouble, what I was good at. It’s just – just me.”

“Yes.” Halt looked up at the sky, seeing the sun still climbing above them, and frowned as he judged the time.

“Why?” Asked Will, eyes wide as he looked at his mentor. Though he wanted to answer, Halt was too aware of the limited time frame that they had. Liam would be expecting them at the rendezvous soon, and he needed to get the letter to Crowley as fast as possible. Any other time would have been better to have this conversation.

“Do you trust me, Will?” He said.

“Of course I do!” Despite his eager tone, Halt knew Will was a little confused. 

““We don’t have time for that story now. I will tell you, as soon as I can. But right now, I need you to ride to the rendezvous.” Nodding, Will pushed his disappointment away, ready for the task at hand.

“Aren’t you coming with me?” He asked, as he realised what Halt had said. But Halt was already shaking his head, having anticipated the question.

“I told you, I have to get this letter to Crowley. It’s top priority. Which means it’s your job to find Liam. He’ll lead you home to the Gorge.” As they both stood up, Halt put his hands on Will’s shoulders, looking at him hard to make sure he was paying attention. “As long as you’re with Liam, you’re safe. As safe as if you were with me.” Will nodded seriously, holding Halt’s gaze until his mentor released his shoulders and turned away, picking up the saddlebags and striding quickly over to the horses. As he reached them, Abelard shook his mane, eager to get going again.

“Find Liam, get back to the Gorge. Got it.” His voice artificially light and breezy, Will put one foot in the stirrups and swung up onto Tug. Feeling oddly proud of the ease with which Will and Tug interacted, Halt nodded reassuringly.

“You’ll be fine.” Halt said, mirroring his apprentice’s movements to mount Abelard smoothly. “I’ll see you there.” He tried to ignore the worry showing on Will’s face, knowing that that same worry was threatening to make itself known in his own mind, and if he thought about it too much, then it would rise up and overwhelm him. With a flick of the reins, he took off, leaving Will and Tug standing in the dust as he and Abelard sped away in the direction of home.

The steady drumming of Abelard’s hooves on the hard-packed dirt seemed to mirror the single thought pounding relentlessly inside his head.

Ferris knew.


	11. Ten of Wands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know it's not exactly been a long time since I last posted a chapter, but it's been a little while coming.   
> Basically I sort of concussed myself, then had a bit of a mental breakdown, and then got writers block about the chapter this was supposed to be, but after some rejigging, it's here now!  
> Enjoy!
> 
> \- Jay

After Norgate turned up empty, with not a Ranger in sight or a hint that they had ever been near the township, Egon continued north-west alone. He liked having time to himself – it didn’t bother him like it bothered others. The Ranger corps was full of colourful characters, to say the least, and Egon personally believed that he was in a branch with some of the most colourful of them. Not that he would trade his comrades for anything, but sometimes he did need that time by himself. Occasionally, he mused dryly, he preferred the company of his horse, Lion, to that of Jurgen, the most riotous ranger that the plains had produced. There were only so many explosions, fires, and bar fights that he could cope with before he needed to be alone.

There was nowhere lonelier than the plains. The wind scrubbed away every sign of life but the jackrabbits, cleansing the plains of any indication that other human beings had ever existed. Occasionally he would spot the tracks of cattle, being driven to some unknown destination, or the markers of some planned railroad destined to remain half built for eternity as the plains remained unchanged, always brand new as they had been the day the world came into existence.

As far as Egon was concerned, it was just him, Lion, and the Rangers he was tracking. And tracking them was nigh impossible – a bent piece of grass, a chipped rock, a dip in the ground that could have been natural or could have been a firepit. Without any discernible progress, without any way to tell if he was catching or losing them or on the wrong trail entirely, Egon had to trust to his own skills and his routine and the thought that, eventually, he would catch up the them, and his slow and steady approach would win the race. Bring them home, he thought. That had been the instruction from Crowley, the command as he sent them out. He couldn’t go back without them. Until then, he was a good as homeless, a wanderer on the great plains, alone – apart from his horse, obviously, he thought with a smile. As long as he had his horse, no Ranger was truly alone.

Every day, as the sun first touched the western horizon, Egon stopped, marked out a campsite and laid out his bedroll. He fed and watered his horse, sorted his supplies, and ran a perimeter check with the last light of the day, and then went to sleep with the sun. As the sun first peeked above the horizon, he was already awake, saddling Lion and packing away efficiently with the pale, weak, first light of the new day. When the sun threw his shadow away to the west, he went riding after it, chasing the slightest clue with a single minded devotion to his task that kept him going, day after day, week after week, past Norgate, past Morgarath’s lands, all the way out to the edges of the Rangers’ range. He needed that routine, that pattern that kept every day the same as he headed further and further away from the Gorge.

Now, there was something burning on the horizon, and it wasn’t the sun. It lit up the plains and the sky, that deadly flame that roared into the heavens long after the day had died, the sun abandoning them for the night. He could hear no shouting, no screams, no sound of a struggle carried on the relentless wind – whatever fight had occurred was already over, and the dead would be past saving. All that was bought on that wind was a faint smell of acrid smoke, flakes of ash that landed in his hair like the most sinister snowflakes that ever fell. He tried not to think of what or who had burnt to make the ash now clinging to his skin. If he allowed himself to dwell on it, he would be frozen, sick at himself and at the fire, unable to help the survivors – if, indeed, there were any survivors.

“Too late.” Egon murmured to Lion, the little horse snorting in agreement as he packed up his camp in the darkness. Within a minute, he was riding again, riding as fast as he could, riding in the fading hope that there would be someone left to save. “We’re going to be too late.”

_I’m going as fast as I can._ Straining against the laws of the universe that kept his speed constant, Lion tried to accelerate even further. Head tucked down, Egon tried to stay out of the wind as it whipped across his face, bringing the smoke with it, thick and cloying in the darkness. Too late, he thought, over and over to the rhythm of Lion’s hooves on the stone and dirt underfoot.

As they approached, there was a sick, acrid smell that clogged up the air. He hated that he knew it, that the smell of burning flesh was one he knew. Urging Lion on faster, he leapt from the saddle without slowing as they drew in close to the fire. Wanting to be sick, Egon fell to his knees, half from shock and half from the momentum which carried him forwards until his knees collided with the stone. The entire camp and all its inhabitants had been piled up and set on fire. Worst of all, lying in the embers at the base of the blaze was a warped silver amulet that had once been an oakleaf. It drew his eyes, seizing his attention and not letting go.

“No.” He whispered, unable to accept it. The new day dawned with him still knelt there unmoving, tears tracking through the ash and dust on his face as he waited for a miracle, as if by staying there the tragedy would undo itself and those five Rangers that he had been meant to find would spring back to life unscathed. That twisted bit of silver reflected the firelight as he stared numbly at it, mentally casting through the list of missing Rangers to try and figure out who was burning. So far gone in his nameless grief that he didn’t hear the approaching hoofbeats, or perhaps didn’t care enough to look, Egon watched the ravaging flames die down, lower and lower with every hour. He wondered if the dead were watching him, if he could ever be forgiven for being too late to save them, for not finding them before the enemy.

“Are they Rangers?” Berrigan asked, being helped down by Lewin. He’d lost a leg below the knee since Egon had last seen him, which seemed so much less important in the face of so much death. Nodding silently, Egon turned back to the fire.

“Shit.” Someone was murmuring and he realised that there were six or seven Rangers dismounting and kneeling by him, that those had been the approaching hoofbeats, that he wasn’t about to be struck down where he knelt and laid side by side with those he had let down when they needed him most. “What do we do?”

“Put the fire out.” He croaked, voice thick with smoke and emotion, unable to even raise his head under the weight of all he should have done. Every word felt like a betrayal, a sick remined that there were Rangers who would never speak again because of him.

“We’ll bury them here and take the oakleaves back to the Gorge.” As Berrigan spoke, they began to move, smothering the flames with bedrolls and horse blankets. His authority managed to cut through their grief long enough to mobilise them into action, still managing to keep his voice steady. “Who did this, Egon?”

“Who do you think?” The silver shape seemed dull now, without the firelight. Lifeless as the Ranger who had worn it, whoever he had been. “What happened to you?” He asked eventually, still struggling to get the words out past the smoke and fear that was clogging up his lungs and throat, the scum of it permeating him as though he would never be clean of it.

“What do you think? We were ambushed outside Norgate trying to find you.”

“I’m sorry.” Berrigan waved away his apology as though it was nothing, as though he didn’t care that Egon hadn’t been there when he needed him. He had never been more grateful for Berrigan’s forgiving, practical nature. Had he blamed him for his lost leg, Egon would have sunk so far under the weight of the guilt that he would have been pulled through the surface of the earth, down to a place filled with fire. As it was, he felt pinned in place by the lives he had failed to save, unable to move even to put out their funeral pyre.

“We’re alive, aren’t we? Blame Morgarath. He’s the only one who deserves the guilt for this. For all of this.” Nodding, Egon watched that small, twisted scrap of silver in the dust. He could do that, he thought. He could hold Morgarath accountable for the death, for the devastation, for the loss and the pain and the damage.

Once they had finished, the graves were tucked out of the wind, their heads by an outcrop of rock that someone had spent all day chipping an oakleaf into – something permanent, something the wind would take years to scour away. They didn’t linger long over them. Each found the words and promises in their own minds as they worked through the rest of the day in the foul, burnt stench that lingered in the folds of their clothes and in between the roots of their hair.

Berrigan promised justice over the graves of their dead companions and let them privately translate that to vengeance, deadly and relentless, against Morgarath, architect of this misery. Fury and despondency and regret and despair rode side by side into the Gorge, a handful of silver and bronze distorted beyond recognition cutting into Egon’s palm. Merron and Meralon – for once not arguing – brought up the rear as Berrigan lead them into the cavern in silence and grief and regret. It felt as through the entire Ranger corps were there to see their shame – shame at not being fast enough, at having to leave their brothers in arms behind, at returning alive when five more Rangers would not return at all.

Later, Egon would be told that there was only one full branch missing, who arrived the next day from the north, and Gilan, gone on to Picta, and Liam, Will and Halt, still undercover – that everyone else had been there to witness that shameful return. As it was, he rode forwards, apart from the rest, dismounted onto shaking legs that miraculously still held him up, and pressed the silver into Crowley’s palm, passing the torch and apologising over and over again for the burden placed on his shoulders with those three pieces of silver and two scraps of bronze. Later, he would name every Ranger accounted for and realise that it was the fifth branch that had been wiped out – Stuart and Nick, Alun, Truscott, and Nicholl. Alun had barely earned his silver, barely more than a boy for all intents of purposes. Stuart and Nick had just been apprentices – they weighed him down, heavier than ever on his shoulders.

The Gorge was silent for days after they returned, all in mourning for their lost comrades. Rangers mourned together, but Egon set himself apart, unable to bear their judgement, unwilling to tempt himself with the drinking and story telling that played such a heavy role in their remembrance of the lost. Their oakleaves were hung from the branches of the oak tree that overshadowed the Rangers’ graveyard in a ceremony that was less solemn and more tired. As they stood around, watching the dying sunlight catch on the amulets, Egon felt eyes on him. Rangers were subtle when they needed to be, but they were also good at telling when they were being watched – and Egon knew he was being watched. He’d taken a position towards the back of the crowd, trying to avoid the attention of others, unwilling to face their scrutiny at this time. It hadn’t worked. Prone to gossip, the Rangers had spread the news of how he had found the fifth branch around the Gorge at lightning speed with a remarkable lack of embellishment,

Five Rangers dead at once. Egon was all too aware that he had been meant to find them – that he had failed in letting Morgarath find them first. He saw the looks that other Rangers cast him in the silent days that followed, as if their ash and smoke still clung to his face and hair and clothes, like a sign hung around his neck that told them how much he’d failed. He saw all too much, the knowledge of everyone’s grief keeping him from falling asleep at night. He saw the slump in Crowley’s shoulders as he watched the Gorge entrance, waiting for Halt to return, to have his support back, all too aware that he had handed him that extra weight that was pulling him down. A part of Egon longed for someone who he could rely on like that, for a partnership like they had. Five Rangers dead. Five Rangers murdered in one fell swoop. Five Rangers who would never come home, never see their friends or families again. Five good people gone forever, and they both felt the weight of those lives on their shoulders.

As always, he fell back into his routine. It kept him going while his emotions caught up to him, while he felt numb, while he felt the pull of the bottle again. Waking before the dawn he climbed the walls to see the sunrise reflecting off them, joined by nearly ten other Rangers in silent vigil as they greeted the new day. He rode Lion out on patrol, passing the alcove in the wall where Crowley spent his time, watching and waiting, and every time he wanted to say something and didn’t. Wanted to tell Crowley that he was sharing that weight, that guilt, that he didn’t need to bear it alone, that he could turn to him if he felt like the deaths of so many Rangers were pulling him down. By the time the sun set, he had returned to his mattress and fallen into a fitful sleep that awarded him no real rest, that was haunted by the burning ghosts of Stuart, Nick, Alun, Truscott, and Nicholl.

And then Halt came back, riding as though all the demons of hell were behind him, came riding back to Crowley with a letter than nobody else was allowed to see and without his apprentice.

The next day, they left, riding side by side with Harrison back towards whatever demons Halt had been fleeing so hard he had left not one but two apprentices behind him.


	12. Eight of Wands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back in the game, lads. And I already have about half the next chapter written too!
> 
> Enjoy! Comment! Leave Kudos!
> 
> \- Jay

Working in the yard, Liam’s primary job was to take care of the horses that Morgarath’s men rode when they went hunting Rangers. He made friends with the other stable hands, and then with the bandits, hid his despise behind smiling eyes and a quick joke. They were easy to get talking, especially for Liam. His knowledge of weaponry and survival skills meant he could keep up with the conversation of the bandits as they lounged about in the afternoon sun, waiting for their next assignment. As the days went by, they opened up further to him, even inviting him to their table at mealtimes – an honour his fellow stable hands did not share in and envied him for.

Sometimes, he spotted Will, taking plates to and from the kitchens, or Halt, stood outside on a break and looking murderous. He didn’t approach them, too aware of the fragility of his cover. Any wrong move could mean death – not just for himself, but also for Will and Halt. It was a secretive, dangerous place, full of lies and treachery. Everyone lived in fear of Morgarath, and in the hope that they would get to turn someone else in and prove their own loyalty, rising up the ranks over the bodies of those they betrayed to their master. It was so different to the family that he knew he had in the Ranger corps, where almost everyone was ready to help everyone else. Even in the stables, suspicion was rife. As Liam made friends with the bandits, he was too aware of the target growing on his back. He had managed to work his way into attracting the jealousy of longer-term stable hands – a dangerous position to be in.

“They caught some sneaker in Picta.” One of the bandits said over dinner, some day in early November. Liam’s heart skipped a beat, nerves flooding through him.

“Caught as in captured? Alive?” He asked, trying to look excited at the tale they were weaving rather than sick with worry. Please alive, he thought desperately. If there was a captive Ranger in Morgarath’s house, then he could try to break them out. Then he would be able to leave. Hope flickered in his chest for a second, small and weak.

“Caught as in on the end of a crossbow bolt. Trapped him, shot him, and left his body lying there in the road.” That hope died as quick as it had been born, sputtering out like someone had poured cold water over it. Liam’s hands trembled almost imperceivably, betraying his fear and grief. One of the others laughed, and Liam tried to join in, unable to remember who had gone north out of their small band as emotion clouded his memory. Panic surged in his chest at the sudden and awful thought that it might have been Harrison, that his mentor might be the one they were celebrating the death of. He was frozen in place, holding himself still so as to keep some semblance of control over the situation and his response. One more Ranger dead, he thought. For a horrifying second, he thought it might have been Crowley going north and felt a sudden chill at the thought of Halt’s implacable rage should that ever happen. He couldn’t think of a way to find out who had died without arousing suspicion from the group, wondering if the fear and tension would ever fade and let him speak.

“One less sneaker for us to worry about.” Sneered another, grinning around the group. All Liam could do was nod silently, fighting to keep his emotions bottled inside. Behind his eyes, the scene they’d described played out again and again, each time more gruesome than the last as his mind embellished the Ranger’s death. He’d never visited Picta, but his imagination built it from ominous slabs of indestructible grey rock, a tall, foreboding wall against which the faceless Ranger was trapped by a dozen men with crossbows – a firing squad.

It got harder every day to keep going, to keep his head down and work when he wanted to take Acorn and bolt onto the plains, to leave and never look back, to find Harrison and his reassurance.

“Any news from the plains?” Liam asked in a voice that was artificially chirpy. He sat down between two of the bandits from Picta, forcing himself not to look at them, not to ask any questions.

“Lucky bastards only went and found five sneaking Rangers sitting around a campfire.” One of them muttered – Liam didn’t know their names, he hadn’t allowed himself to learn them, afraid to humanise them in his mind, afraid that he might hesitate at some vital point in the future when they faced each other in a fight. Some of them laughed, evidently familiar with what had happened. Liam wasn’t so sure he wanted to know anymore.

“Did they put up a fight?” Please, he thought, say they got away.

“Didn’t get the chance.” Sniggering into his soup, one of the bandits grinned at Liam. “Bet you wish you could have been there, don’t ya, kid?”

“Yeah. Yeah I do.” He said quietly, not meeting their eyes to hide the rage and despair battling in his heart. The question of which Rangers it had been tormented him as he sat there, listening to their gossip. “Was it difficult?” He blurted out suddenly, interrupting them. “Killing the Rangers, was it difficult? I heard they carry massive axes everywhere they go.”

“You heard wrong.” Someone sniggered. “Never heard of any Ranger with an axe. They carry bows and knives.” Not Farrel then, he thought. “These ones were just sneakers in training, anyway.”

“In training?” He asked, unnaturally casual. The bandits looked at each other, suspicion showing on their faces.

“Yeah, two about your age, and one a bit older. Had their teachers with them, not that that did any good.” With horrifying certainty, Liam realised who they were talking about. The knowledge rose in his throat steadily, all consuming.

“You alright, kid?” The man on his left elbowed him sharply. Liam felt sick to his stomach, putting his soup down with shaking hands. Nodding silently, he stood up.

“Just need to go fetch water for the horses.” Muttering an excuse, he stumbled backwards and all but ran from the dining hall. As he fled down the long twisting halls, his breath came fast and shallow, loss and panic driving dry sobs out of him.

He cried himself to sleep that night, sobbing silently into the straw for fear that someone would hear him and ask why he was so upset at the death of some sneaking Rangers. Stuart and Nick dead. He felt the loneliness eating away at him, and called for Harrison silently, willing him to come and tell him it was all going to be alright, that they were lying, that nobody had died, that they were safe.

But his mentor wasn’t there, couldn’t be there, and he had a job to do, so the next morning, he got up and washed off his face, forcing himself to face them over and over again. No matter how many attacks he heard of, he was never sure how much information he needed to collect before he could leave, so he stayed on, more terrified by the moment, grieving privately and silently, keeping his head down and forcing himself to remember the faces of those who boasted of killing Rangers. He promised himself that once he was free, once he had fled out into the plains, he would avenge his dead friends, and that promise kept him going, kept him smiling at them day after day.

“Did you hear the news?” Accosting him in the stables, one of the bandits grinned at Liam, expecting him to be excited. At the thought of another tragedy, Liam felt a pang of grief, wondering who had been killed. He pleaded silently with a god he didn’t believe in that this time, the Ranger had got away. “There were spies in the kitchen.” He continued without waiting for a response. Liam gaped at him, suddenly fearful. If they knew he was connected to them, if someone had seen him looking at Will, then he would be as good as dead. “They stole Morgarath’s letters and ran away in the night. A couple of sneakers, to hear him tell. He’s furious.” The note of glee in the bandit’s voice was terrible to hear. The thought that Will and Halt might be suffering as they spoke arose unbidden in his mind. Worse still, he thought, they might be dead. His mind rebelled against the thought, refusing to imagine a world where they had somehow failed in their mission.

“Did you catch them?” He asked, mostly because that would be expected of Liam the stable hand. At the shake of the bandit’s head, he felt a surge of relief and managed to relax a little, shoulders slumping as he released the tension he had been holding in them, ready to flee or fight or possibly collapse and cry. The look of suspicion that the bandit cast at him went unnoticed in his private joy at knowing Will and Halt had escaped unscathed and with the evidence they needed. “So, what’s next? Are you going after them? Can I go with you?” Still looking at him strangely, the bandit laughed.

“No, we’re letting them go. Morgarath has something special planned to draw all the sneakers out at once. Kill them all.” Instinctively, Liam knew that this was it, the information he needed to earn his exit from this oppressive place.

“What’s that then?” He pressed him urgently, not caring enough to notice the growing suspicion in the man’s eyes. Whatever the plan was, he needed to know.

“We’re going to raze Araluan to the ground.”

The next morning felt harsh, the pale light filtering through the gaps in the stable roof as Liam hurried to gather his few possessions, saddling Acorn and loading the saddlebags haphazardly in his rush. Somewhere in the back of his head, Harrison was telling him off for his messy packing, scolding him gently and managing to make him feel disappointed in himself. He took a deep breath and adjusted his bedroll, tightening the strings that were holding it closed and fitting in more efficiently into the bottom of the saddlebag. Forcing himself to slow down, to take the time to make sure of every detail, Liam tried to reassure Acorn, who mirrored his own nervousness.

_Where are we going?_ Asked the small horse as he fit the bridle. Though his hands shook with the tension, Liam ensured that his tack was secure, checking and double checking it as Harrison had taught him.

“Home. They need to know this.” He replied shortly, looking around to see if he had forgotten anything – or if there was any way he could stop them following him so quickly.

_I’ll be fast._ Acorn scraped his hooves against the ground, eager to get going, and Liam allowed himself a chuckle.

“You always are.” Hesitating before he mounted, Liam turned away and walked up and down the stable, quickly cutting each of the other horses loose and flinging open the stable doors to let them roam freely over the courtyard. Once he reached the gate, some of them would get out onto the plains and be lost forever, he thought with a grim smile. “That ought to slow them down.” He muttered, frowning, and then, with one easy motion, swung into the saddle and rode for the gate in a clatter of hooves that could barely be heard above the commotion.

The guards went down, transfixed by arrows. They collapsed at their posts before they had the chance to sound the alarm, dead before they noticed the young Ranger lift his longbow. Dismounting, Liam pushed the heavy wooden gates open himself. The sight that greeted him – the plains stretching out into infinity, lonely and wild and his – made his breath catch in his throat. There was a storm blowing in, he realised. Currently, it was only thin black line on the horizon to the east that was advancing slowly on them all, bringing destruction in its wake. Shuddering in fear and awe at the sight, he was captivated by the power and majesty of the oncoming storm for a few long moments.

He hauled himself back up into the saddle, urging Acorn into movement again as they made their way into freedom, leaving those ominous gates swinging laboriously in the wind behind him as he and Acorn sped away, turning to the south and riding along the perimeter line with single minded determination. There was no time for subtlety now – he needed to get back to the Gorge before the attack on Araluan commenced, before it was too late. If they hurried, they could make it back to the rendezvous point by midday and find Halt and Will there. Perhaps, Liam thought with a smile, they could even beat them. At that thought he urged Acorn on, nudging him gently with his knee. At the signal, the little horse accelerated a little further, kicking up a cloud of dust behind them as they raced past the fence line that was snatched away almost instantaneously by the cold, insistent wind. This, Liam thought, was freedom, joy, the purest happiness he had ever felt.

Nearly five miles from the rendezvous point, there was someone waiting for him. In the centre of the path, a tall, dark rider sat straight-backed and menacing. His steed was long limbed, built for speed. Suddenly unsure of their escape, Liam tightened his grip on the reins. Acorn faltered and then slowed, coming to a stop some twenty meters away. They regarded each other, Liam and the strange rider, for a moment, assessing one another, and then the other horse wheeled on its hind legs, racing away as the rider sawed at the reins, digging their spurs into the horse’s sides the encourage greater speed. They were headed towards the rendezvous, Liam realised. He knew that he couldn’t allow them to reach that point and put Halt and Will in danger. Acorn didn’t need any encouragement whatsoever, accelerating away after the rider almost before Liam had thought to do so. For nearly twenty meters, there was only the even drumming of hooves on dirt, reliable, steady, unstoppable. They were gaining on them with every step – Acorn was faster, more reliable, better than the other horse in every way, and Liam revelled in the certainty of each step, the freedom of galloping full tilt in pursuit after so much time hiding and creeping. Even as he thought it, the other was flagging, slowing, as if already exhausted. He urged Acorn on further, sensing the victory only moments away.

And then, a misstep or hesitation. A slight change in the familiar rhythm of Acorn’s reckless galloping stride. For half a moment, Liam thought that Acorn was showing off again.

He wasn’t.


	13. Five of Cups

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. 
> 
> I killed Liam.
> 
> Sorry.
> 
> \- Jay

There was a storm blowing in. The smell of rain was heavy on the wind, which blew persistently across Will’s path, buffeting him. He could almost make out the shapes of individual clouds, dark and ominous in their unstoppable approach, and the flashes of lightning that lit up the plains already consumed by the storm.

Trotting along the perimeter fence, Will couldn’t stop himself from analysing it, Halt’s training allowing him seeing the many weak points. He almost wanted to slip back through, to stand on Morgarath’s land for a minute and defy him – almost. There had been no one at the rendezvous – Will wasn’t worried, as he’d got there early in the day, and, after several hours of waiting, had decided to go and find Liam. He urged Tug into a canter, speeding up as they approached a bend in the path so as to get around as fast as possible and confront whatever was waiting.

What was waiting was a dark shape in the middle of the road that looked ominously like a body.

“No.” Will said, dismounting and breaking into a run. “No, not Liam. No.” The shape became clearer as he approached – all too clear, in fact.

Liam was lying in the middle of the road on his back - his head was at an odd angle from his body and his right leg was obviously broken. He was dead and had been for some time already. A few meters away, Acorn was lying down, one foreleg stretched out in front of him awkwardly. The pieces fit together almost too well. A misplaced hoof, a bad fall, and Liam had broken his neck on impact. Except that didn’t explain the wire trailing out of the bushes on either side of his body. Will stood up, stepping carefully backwards, one foot at a time, making sure to tread in his own footprints as he retreated so as to not disturb the scene. Calming his breathing, Will tried to remember Halt’s teachings. He closed his eyes, drawing in one deep breath, and then, as he exhaled, opened them again.

There was a patch of disturbed dust about ten meters from Liam’s body, where a horse had been prancing on the spot and then taken off into a gallop away from him. Will could picture the scene in his mind’s eye – Liam charging after the mysterious figure, and then coming unseated as Acorn hit the taut wire across the path.

“It was a trap.” He whispered, horrified. Tug snorted, startling Will with the sound. With a sick feeling growing in his stomach, Will realised that there were footprints near Liam’s body that weren’t his own. “He didn’t die when he fell – the rider came back and murdered him.” Crouching down as he felt his legs shaking beneath him, threatening to give way, Will felt his breathing racing out of control, fear and panic rising in his throat.

_Acorn’s leg is broken._ Tug said, interrupting Will’s train of thought. _He needs a splint. G_ rateful for the distraction, Will nodded. Walking slowly over to Acorn, he made sure not to startle the horse. The leg was broken in two places, but the bone hadn’t pierced the skin. Will stood up again and immediately felt sick. He stumbled backwards, closing his eyes tight and feeling blindly for Tug. As he felt the warm flank beneath his hand, the short bristly hair against his palm, his knees almost gave out. Leaning against Tug to stop himself collapsing, Will felt tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

“A splint.” He said, hearing his voice as if from a long way off. Sitting down in the dust, he pulled an arrow from his quiver and went to work, stripping the fletching from the heavy shaft with his saxe knife and hacking at the base of the razor sharp broadhead until the wood gave way and he was left with a strong straight strip of wood. Will repeated the process on three more arrows before fetching bandages from his medical kit and taking them over to Acorn, whispering calmingly. The practicality of the task was soothing to him, and an odd sense of calm came over him. “Here, I’m going to set your leg.” He explained, holding up the bandages so Acorn could see what he was doing. The last thing he needed was a panicking horse with a broken leg. “This might hurt a little.” Moving quickly, he held the leg straight and bound the four arrow shafts to it with layers and layers of bandages. He sliced through the strip of cloth with his knife and tucked in the end securely, standing up and stepping back from Acorn.

He felt sick, glancing at Liam’s body. The limp shape that had once been his friend looked small in the dust of the road. Will leant against Tug again, closing his eyes against the pain, as if by refusing to see the world around him he could deny Liam’s death.

“What do I do now?” He whispered into Tug’s mane. Halt had promised that he would be safe with Liam, but now, with Liam dead, he felt exposed by the openness of the plains – particularly so close to the perimeter fence. No answer came. “What do I do?” Feeling warm tears trickle down his face, Will tried to organise his thoughts to little avail. “We have to go back to the Gorge, but Acorn can’t carry any weight right now.”

_I can take it._ Tug whinnied softly.

“Can you carry Liam?” He said, standing back and running his hand down Tug’s neck reassuringly.

_Of course._

Will dug in Acorn’s saddlebags to find Liam’s bedroll. As he did so, he took out the lead rein and took off Acorn’s saddle carefully. Once he had the bedroll, he untied it in the road next to Liam’s body and laid it out carefully. Hesitating, he looked down at the ground, breathing deeply to try and keep calm. He wrapped the body securely, tying the bedroll shut around it while he tried to ignore what his own hands were doing. His breath was shaky and uneven as he picked Liam’s body up and carried it over to Tug, laying it gently across the saddle.

“I’m going to walk.” Will said to Tug and Acorn, trying to sound sure of himself. Attaching the lead rein to Acorn and then finding Tug’s lead rein and attaching that too, he started out with the two horses in tow, walking towards the oncoming storm.

The storm hit them all at once, with a sudden gust of wind that ushered in the driving rain and half blinded Will with its ferocity. He stumbled onwards, making sure that everything was secure and hauling Acorn’s saddle and packs onwards over his back. They made slow progress, now with the wind against them, seemingly determined to bowl them over and blow them back to Morgarath. Unwilling to stop, to spend more time alone on the plains, Will kept them moving, struggling against the full force of the weather. Hungry, tired, and grieving, he carried on regardless.

Then he saw the riders. Up ahead, they rose above a crest, breaking up the skyline as the three rode onwards – directly towards Will. He hesitated, then stopped, deciding to fight rather than flee. Not, he supposed, that he could have fled either way. The riders were approaching fast, driving their horses on to greater speed as they spotted Will and the two horses. He pulled out his saxe knife with a slither of steel, dropping the lead reins to make his stand. Against three of them, he doubted he could do much, but nonetheless he made sure he was ready to fight, steadying his hands by pure force of will.

“Will!” One of them called, above the rain and wind, pulling up and jumping down to run to him. He blinked at the sound of his own name, wiping the rain from his face to try and better see their faces at the other two dismounted too.

“Halt.” The knife slipped from his hand as he stood in the rain, unable to tell whether he was crying or not in the driving rain. In a few quick strides, Halt was there, embracing him tightly. Will hugged him back, closing his eyes against the world.

“You’re not hurt.” He said, with a clear note of relief in his voice. “You’re alive.”

“They killed Liam.” Will sobbed into Halt’s shoulder. “They set a trap – he was dead when I got there.” Someone was crying out with loss, and Will didn’t know if it was him or not. He could hear Halt’s voice, low and comforting, but the words themselves were snatched away by the wind before he could understand them. “He’s dead. Liam’s dead.” He repeated, in a voice that shook with emotion.

“I know.” His mentor murmured, still embracing him. “But you’re safe now. I won’t leave you alone again. I promise.” There was a lump in Will’s throat that wouldn’t go away as he clung to Halt desperately, sobbing. “You’re safe, Will. I’m not going anywhere.”

“We have to get moving.” Crowley said quietly, putting one hand on Halt’s shoulder. He could only just be heard over the raging of the storm. Nodding, Halt looked up, glancing at Harrison with concern. As he looked back at Crowley, the two of them exchanged a wordless conversation in an instant.

“Will can ride with me. Abelard can take us both from here to the Gorge.” Still holding Will securely, Halt replied in an equally quiet tone. “We’ll have to go slowly with that broken leg on Acorn.” Nodding, Crowley pushed his wet hair back from his face, sighing as it was blown back into his eyes by the wind.

“I’ll get Harrison.” He said, stepping away from them. Will looked up, half turning to see where Harrison was. Sat on the ground, he was cradling Liam’s body silently, eyes closed tight. He seemed unaware of the attention of the other Rangers, or perhaps didn’t care about it, focussed entirely on Liam’s limp body. At the devastated look on his face, Will felt a sudden pang of guilt.

“Let’s go home.” Said Halt, quietly, taking Will’s attention away from Harrison. “Can you move?” Will nodded, taking a deep and shaky breath that was partially rainwater. He coughed violently for a few seconds, almost doubling over, and then stood up straight again, squaring his shoulders and attempting to put a brave face on it.

“Let’s go.” Although Halt didn’t look convinced by his attempt at a reassuring grin, he nonetheless stepped back, watching carefully as Will walked towards Abelard with obviously faked confidence.

“The pass word is ‘permettez moi’” Halt called after him urgently, as Will put one foot in the stirrup. Stepping backwards, Will eyed Abelard suspiciously, searching for any indication that the grey horse had been about to buck him off.

“Permettez moi?” He asked, waiting for an indication that Abelard had understood him. After a moment’s hesitation, the little horse gave a long, rattling shake of his mane, and Will sighed with relief.

“There you go.” Swinging up into the saddle, Halt reached a hand down to help Will up after him.

“You two ready to go?” Crowley said, passing Tug’s lead rein to Will. As Halt nodded, he smiled up at them. “Lead the way then. I’ll follow.” As they set off, Will couldn’t help but wonder if he’d missed some deeper meaning in those words meant only for Halt.

They rode slowly through the storm until they reached the entrance to the Gorge, where they all dismounted, Harrison carrying Liam’s body in his arms as they made their way down the enclosed path, hoofbeats echoing off the rock that surrounded them. Evidently, they had been spotted by a patrol while still riding in, because there Rangers were waiting for them who fell in behind as they passed like an honour guard for the returning branch. Will missed the presence of Gilan, wondering if the tall Ranger had arrived back yet or if he was still travelling north.

The Rangers at the Gorge were already mourning when they arrived. Will listened numbly to Halt as he was told of the murder of the entire fifth branch, feeling fear as a constant presence in the back of his mind. The rain pelted off the rock above them, echoing around the cavern and almost drowning out the thunder as it rolled around the sky. One step behind Harrison, he followed the procession down to the Rangers’ graveyard, through the twisting tunnel and back out into the storm as they made their way down the well-worn steps, the petals and smoothed stone treacherous underfoot. In the wind and rain, only slightly sheltered by the massive oak tree, he stood in silence as Harrison lowered Liam’s body into the wood-lined grave gently.

An unmarked slab of granite was lying nearby, readied by Egon and Jurgen upon the news of their approach. Together with Farrel, Harrison manoeuvred it into position so that it covered Liam’s grave completely. Later, he would carve Liam’s name into it with the oakleaf symbol that adorned all the graves around them. As Liam’s mentor, he wouldn’t allow anyone else to do it for him. Will knew they had been as close as father and son, and the thought of Harrison’s unrelenting grief only made him feel more guilty for Liam’s death. He knew, of course, that it hadn’t been his fault, that he couldn’t have done anything to stop it. Unfortunately, the guilt ate away at him regardless, whispering that he should have done something, anything differently. Worse still, he knew he ought to say something to Harrison, but he couldn’t bring himself to approach the man.

“Liam shouldn’t be dead.” Crowley said. “He deserved better than this.” Looking around, Will saw a sea of faces expressing the same numb disbelief that he felt in his own heart. “It’s – difficult to accept that he’s gone.” He sounded tired as he spoke. “Liam could always be counted upon. For anything. He was a good Ranger, and he should have had a long and happy life.” The anger in his voice surprised Will. He hadn’t really thought it possible for Crowley to be anything other than jovial or tired. Anger was an unexpected emotion, and one that sounded deadly in the Ranger’s quiet, even voice. Next to him, Halt frowned at the ground. Will wasn’t sure he wanted to know what his mentor was thinking as the rain slid down his face, so grim and unmoving that he almost looked like he had been carved out of stone. As the wind whipped up the fallen oak leaves about them, flinging them at the assembled Rangers, Halt remained seemingly undisturbed, defiant of the storm in his stillness.

Harrison didn’t speak. He remained by the grave long after everyone else had left, looking up at the sky as the rain pelted his face and soaked through his clothes, mouthing silent promises to Liam.


	14. Eight of swords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoop whoop who's ready for more angst? 
> 
> not me, that's for sure.
> 
> \- Jay

“Ferris knows.” Halt said, dropping out of the saddle and onto the ground in front of Crowley. It was a mark of how much weight that sentence carried that Crowley forgot what he was going to say for a moment.

“The fifth branch is dead.” He replied. “And Berrigan’s lost a leg.” Stepping forwards to close the distance between them, Halt hugged him. It helped, more than perhaps even Crowley realised.

“I’m here.” Wondering if Halt knew how much time he had spent waiting for him to come back, Crowley hugged him back.

“Are you leaving?” Crowley asked, eyes closed. A part of him felt like he already knew the answer. He wondered how long it would take him to pack – there was no question in his mind as to whether he would go too.

“Forget Ferris. We need to stop Morgarath. No more deaths.” That Halt was willing to ignore the very real threat of his brother proved the danger of Morgarath. Not for the first time, Crowley wished he had Halt’s ability to work his pain into cold fury. Then he regretted that wish, as he always did, knowing the pain that anger caused Halt.

“That’s what I said when Pritchard died.” He muttered, the pain of it lacing through him as if it had been days, not months, since their mentor had died. Tensing up, Halt pulled back. For a moment, Crowley thought it was the mention of Pritchard that had done it, and hated that Halt still felt the need to be alone in his struggles.

“You can’t blame yourself.” Halt murmured. As Crowley opened his eyes, he saw the look of concern on Halt’s face. There was a rush of relief and hope as he realised that Halt was trying to help him, not get away.

“I’m supposed to be their leader.” Half heartedly arguing, Crowley felt too tired to really protest – a tiredness that did not fade with sleep, but clung to him more with every new failure, with every extra worry that he carried. It was a bone-deep exhaustion that never left completely, only fading before it returned with a vengeance when he needed his energy the most.

“That doesn’t mean it’s your fault that they’re dead.” Looking doubtful, Crowley opened his mouth to repeat the same old arguments. “It isn’t, love.” His hand cupped Crowley’s cheek, brushing away a tear with his thumb. “Together, remember? It goes both ways.”

“Together.” He replied, softly, and held Halt close once more, drawing comfort from his presence. They stood in silence for what could have been seconds or hours, taking the time to forget their worries. “Where are Liam and Will?” Gently, he threaded his fingers through the hair at the back of Halt’s head, idly thinking that he would need to get his hair cut soon.

“Catching up.” Halt murmured. As he spoke, he looked up at Crowley with concern in his eyes, and an unspoken message passed between them – that with the storm and Morgarath combined, the plains had become a dangerous place, particularly for two apprentices on their own.

“I’ll get Harrison.” Stepping back, he looked Halt up and down appreciatively. “You unload Abelard’s saddlebags.” With a nod, Halt turned away from him, fingers working deftly to undo the fastenings that kept the saddlebags secure and putting them down out of the way. The apprentices wouldn’t be that far behind him and taking extra weight along with them would only slow them down. Crowley stepped backward again, and then, turning abruptly on his heel, strode off to find Harrison. He ignored the fear beginning to curdle in the pit of his stomach with an ease born of years of practice.

The three of them rode out into what had quickly become a ferocious storm. Dust became mud underfoot and grit in their eyes, stinging at the corners. The wind dragged it up and flung it in their faces with the endless, freezing, driving rain. There wasn’t much point talking, not when the thunder overhead drowned out most other sound. Crowley dragged his bandana up so that it covered his mouth and nose, reducing the risk that he might breathe in something unpleasant. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Halt doing the same, frowning in a way that suggested he was grumbling about the weather in his head. Despite the storm howling around them, Crowley couldn’t help but smile at the idea that Halt could stop the wind and rain simply by grouching about them. If anyone could, he thought, it would be Halt.

“Up ahead!” Harrison called, as they crested a ridge. Squinting at the shapes in front of them, Crowley realised that there were two horses and one person on foot struggling towards them through the storm. As he spotted them, the person stopped. They’d been spotted too, Crowley thought, and urged Cropper into a canter towards the lonely figure. As they rode closer to him, he drew a knife that reflected flashes of lightning off its rain-wet blade. A saxe knife, Crowley realised suddenly, as they got closer still.

“It’s Will.” Said Halt, almost breathlessly, accelerating ahead of them in the last few meters and all but flinging himself from the saddle as he reached the boy.

“Where’s Liam?” The look in Harrison’s eyes was approaching panic as they too stopped. Crowley felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, spotting the limp shape on Tug’s saddle at the same time as Harrison did. He dismounted with the same urgency, running to Tug, pulling the prone shape draped across his saddle into his arms. Crowley felt cold inside as he watched him. The wordless cry of grief that Harrison let out was almost too much to bear – something inside Crowley tore in response to that raw display of emotion. He did his best to shut it out, trying to listen to Halt and Will instead of focussing on the distraught sobbing and pleading coming from Harrison. There was nothing he could do, and that knowledge was like a cold fire in his heart, laying waste to all it touched as it raged unchecked.

“He was dead when I got there.” Will was saying, in a voice choked with grief and regret.

“It’s alright, son. You couldn’t have done anything.” Speaking so quietly Crowley wasn’t sure Will could hear him, Halt’s voice shook with relief as the fears he hadn’t even allowed himself to consider melted away. He suspected that Halt hadn’t quite grasped that Liam had died, so relieved was he that his own apprentice hadn’t been hurt or killed. Frowning, Crowley looked carefully at Halt. Son, he thought, and shrugged slightly. So they had another son. Missing Gilan suddenly and sharply, he glanced towards the north as if he would be able to see him riding back home through the storm. It felt wrong that he wasn’t there with them to mourn the loss of one of their own.

“He’s dead. Liam’s dead.” Repeating it again and again, Will sounded like he was in shock. Crowley wanted to step in, feeling lost in the tragic scene, only just keeping himself from disturbing them by reminding himself that there was nothing he could do. A few meters away, Harrison was still crying out, shouting his sorrow to the wind and rain. It was a heart-breaking, haunting sound that seemed to fill up the emptiness of the plains, haunting Crowley’s thoughts. He knew that that sound wouldn’t leave him easily, would continue to claw regret to the surface of his mind for months to come.

“I know. But you’re safe now. I won’t leave you alone again. I promise.” The promise was reflected in his eyes as he looked up at Crowley. “You’re safe, Will. I’m not going anywhere.” Not leaving, Crowley thought, and tried not to think about the repercussions, tried to allow himself one moment of happiness at the thought without having to think about how much he might have to pay for that moment. Lightning flashed across the plains, startling Cropper, who sidestepped into Abelard, whinnying at Crowley in distress.

“We have to get moving.” He said quietly, stepping forwards and putting one hand on Halt’s shoulder. Halt looked back up at him, and then glanced away to look at Harrison. As he met Crowley’s eyes again, they had a brief and silent conversation, their concern for him clear. Nodding in agreement, a frown creased Crowley’s face. It wouldn’t be an easy conversation to have with Harrison – convincing him not to seek revenge by himself when Crowley wanted to do nothing more than hunt Morgarath down – but it was one that needed to take place, sooner rather than later.

“Will can ride with me. Abelard can take us both from here to the Gorge.” He nodded, relieved by the solution to that particular problem. “We’ll have to go slowly with that broken leg on Acorn.” Crowley sighed heavily as another peal of thunder rolled above their heads, as if the storm itself was reminding them of its presence. Not, he thought bitterly, that they could have very well forgotten about it, with the rain and grit still being flung around into their faces.

“I’ll get Harrison.” He said, turning away from them decisively. Approaching slowly, as if Harrison were some kind of wounded animal, Crowley crouched down in the mud next to him. “We have to go.” Turning his empty, devastated gaze on him, Harrison didn’t respond. Instead, he glared at Crowley as if daring him to do something. “He deserves a burial at the Gorge.” Harrison still didn’t move or speak, shoulders shaking with barely repressed tears. “Let’s take him home, Harrison.” That did it, as Harrison doubled over, sobbing and then, slowly, stood up, cradling Liam’s body in his arms as he stepped towards Tug and draped him over the saddle again. The care and reverence he showed in every movement made the grief burst anew in his heart, fresh and painful as though it were a barely closing wound that he kept tearing open over and over again.

Guilt surged through Crowley like a tidal wave as he picked up Tug’s lead rein from where it trailed in the mud, wiping it clean on his sodden sleeve. He could see Harrison comforting Acorn only a few meters away, taking his lead rein and saddle as he walked him gently towards where their horses were standing, ready to go at any moment. For one horrible moment, Crowley considered how he would have reacted if it was Gilan who had died alone, away from his family, on some lonely road where no one could hear him calling for help. It left him feeling empty, as if something had been carved roughly out of him. He looked towards the north again, willing the horizon to produce the tall silhouette of Gilan mounted on Blaze, riding towards them to make it all better. Not for the first time, he wished that he hadn’t been persuaded to split their group up. Then he forced the thought from his mind, well aware that it had been mostly Harrison encouraging him to do so, and that it came dangerously close to blaming Harrison for Liam’s death to think about that.

“You two ready to go?” Crowley said, passing Tug’s lead rein to Will. As Halt nodded, he smiled up at them, his gaze lingering on Halt as his tone turned more tender. “Lead the way then. I’ll follow.” No matter what, he thought, holding Halt’s gaze a moment longer before he tore himself away, jogging over to Cropper through the treacherous mud underfoot.

_Subtle._ He said dryly, as Crowley reached him. Wondering if the other Rangers got made fun of by their horses, Crowley swung up into the saddle.

“Shut up.” As he nudged Cropper into a walk, Crowley pulled his bandana back up, squinting against the wind once more as they headed back to the Gorge. “He knows how I feel.”

_And so does everyone else._ Muttered Cropper. Crowley decided to ignore him and tried not to think too hard about whether it was Cropper or his subconscious he was talking to.

After the funeral, Crowley sat slumped in his chair by the lake, watching as rain filtered through the cracks in the rock ceiling above and caused ripples in the still water. Next to him, Halt sat in silence, watching the tunnel to the graveyard for any movement that would betray Harrison’s return. They were both worried about his silence, the way he had seemingly shut down since their return to the Gorge. Liam’s funeral had been emotionally exhausting, as Crowley had searched for the right words to express their loss and felt himself coming up short. Those words still escaped him hours later as he searched for right way to say that they had lost so much and there was no way to make it right.

He blamed himself, privately, keeping the thoughts quiet in his own mind as he worked through them, examining the guilt objectively to keep from drowning in it. The pressure of Halt’s hand in his own kept him grounded, kept him from drowning in failed responsibilities. Crowley suspected that his partner was also working through his own guilt as they sat side by side in silence, listening to the drumming of rain on the ground above them, the wind howling and the thunder rolling and the quiet splashing of water making its way down to the lake.

As it got darker, the lanterns around the cavern were lit and some branches lit small campfires in the entrance to their alcoves, looking like stars in the all-enveloping night of the Gorge. There would be little sleep for any of them – the Ranger way of mourning tended more towards celebration than quiet contemplation of mortality. After all, for the most part, they were well aware of their own mortality already. Halt sighed next to him, leaning sideways in his chair so that their shoulders brushed – an implicit gesture of support that Crowley felt extraordinarily grateful for.

“What now?” He asked quietly, looking over at Crowley with an indescribable tenderness in his eyes.

“We’ll have a meeting of the senior Rangers tomorrow to discuss what we know.” Sounding tired, weighed down by the weight of his duties, Crowley tried to force confidence into his voice, hoping that it would work its way into being real if he pretended hard enough. “A war council of sorts.” Even as he said it, the full weight of those words sunk in. Yes, he thought, they were at war now – and had been for some time, regardless of whether he’d realised it before or not.

“And then…” Sighing, Halt trailed off as the prospect of further tragedies due to their efforts sunk in. He knew what he was thinking about because those same imagined situations haunted his own mind.

“And then we kill Morgarath.” Crowley said grimly.


	15. The Emperor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I finished the thing.
> 
> and I might have finished a future chapter too but shhhh
> 
> \- Jay

The Gorge in a storm was a haunted place. There was little difference between the howling of the wind and the howling of the spirits that hung around their home, lonely, long dead Rangers made restless by the storm. Some Rangers left them gifts during storms, hoping to comfort their dead comrades. Lewin didn’t generally believe in ghosts – except for when he weathered a storm at the Gorge. It was difficult not to when the mournful wailing that could have been the wind started up.

Lewin sat in a small alcove about five meters above the ground, legs crossed as he attempted to find the peace of mind necessary to doze off. As he sat there, he dug his smaller throwing knife into a chuck of soft pine wood, stripping away bits of bark and chipping it into a more horse-like shape. The repetitive, smooth movement was soothing, calming Lewin’s racing mind as he looked out over the Gorge. He could see Crowley and Halt, sat in wicker chairs by the lake and talking. Their familiarity with one another was evident in every easy motion. There was still no sign of Gilan around the Gorge. It was strange to see them without the lanky Ranger hanging around, he realised. Gilan was sociable – at the very least more sociable than his former mentor – and his jovial presence was missed around the Gorge. Everyone was friendly with Gilan, even if they weren’t necessarily friends with him. Clarke had told them, once he had woken from a day and a half of catching up on sleep, that Gilan was going on to Picta, that he’d said something about a friend he needed to check on.

Someone banged on the wall below him, disrupting his train of thought.

“Have you seen Harrison?” Farrel called up, looking concerned. Unfolding his legs and leaning forwards, Lewin shrugged.

“He sneaked through about an hour ago to get a chisel set from the store, but I think he went outside again after that.” He replied, after some thought. “Why?”

“Couldn’t see him out there.” Frowning, Farrel looked towards the tunnel. “He’s not spoken since he got back.” Automatically, Lewin followed his line of sight. He worried at his bottom lip, frowning.

“He’s grieving.” Farrel laughed sharply, rolling his eyes in derision.

“No, he’s plotting. I know Harrison well enough to tell the difference.” After a moment’s hesitation, Lewin dropped down from his alcove, sheathing his knife even before he hit the ground.

“You’re sure?” He asked, looking sideways at Farrel as he landed next to him.

“As sure as I can be.” With quiet confidence in his conclusions, Farrel shrugged. “People change with grief, but not that much.” Lewin decided that he believed him – Farrel had always been close to Harrison, certainly closer than anyone else had been, apart, perhaps, from Liam.

He didn’t rest easy that night. Concern for Harrison and the haunting sounds of the dying storm kept Lewin awake long after he should have rightfully been dreaming. Eventually, he gave up on sleep and got up, reheating the tepid pot of coffee over the embers of their campfire and taking it with him to his alcove, where he spent the remainder of the night watching the tunnel to the graveyard and carving the rest of a horse out of the chunk of wood he had begun earlier that day. The coffee was bitter, too strong and with nothing in it to sweeten the taste, but it kept him awake, and all that was available at that time of night was Halt’s supply of honey. Lewin considered that to be a depth to which he would not sink, even in the dead of night while he worked through the whole bitter pot. There were few things he actually disagreed with Halt on with any strength, but the subject of honey in coffee was a much contested one amongst the Ranger corps, and Lewin knew exactly where he stood on the debate.

Around two am, the howling wind stuttered out. The silence in its wake hung over the Gorge, heavy and almost oppressive. Lewin considered that the Gorge hadn’t felt right for a long time, ever since they’d moved out – that had been after Halt arrived, but not long after. It had only gotten worse with time – time and funerals. After Pritchard had moved them into a camp that could be more easily packed up upon being attacked, the Gorge had taken on a kind of mythical status for many Rangers, including Lewin – it was a home from which they were exiled, and returning never quite managed to live up to the idyllic gloss that his memories of it had been painted with in the years following their departure.

It had been the raiders – the Skandian roaming bands – that eventually drove them out. They’d been getting bolder, he remembered, and their raids on towns and small farms were getting closer and closer to the Gorge. Ironically, only a month or two after they’d left, Morgarath had arrived on the plains, allying himself with any petty bandit who wanted larger targets. He’d even allied with the raiders, but it had been a short alliance. Lewin didn’t know the details, only that there had been rumours of a massacre and that their unique wolfships had stopped harassing traders on the river shortly afterwards. There had been some among them who had welcomed the presence of Morgarath, believing he might help keep the more troublesome inhabitants of the plains at bay. As far as Lewin remembered – and it had been years since those times – Pritchard had always shut those beliefs down. He’d always given off the impression that he knew something sinister about Morgarath’s past – something that Lewin wasn’t entirely sure had followed Pritchard to his grave.

There was a meeting of the senior Rangers the next day. Senior Rangers was an informal term that Lewin identified with on and off depending on how interested he was in the subject of any given meeting. He had been told by Berrigan that it was to be a war council, and so, at midday, he traipsed down to the lakeside and sat down on the smooth pebbles next to Jurgen. Crowley lounged in his wicker chair, looking around as the other senior Rangers gathered near him. He looked almost like a king, Lewin thought, although he was sure that Crowley wouldn’t appreciate the comparison. He was almost sure that he would follow Crowley wherever he led. It was something about the voice, he thought, though he wasn’t entirely sure. Whatever it was, it was compelling enough that he knew his thoughts about following him into danger were shared by most of the corps – if not all of them.

“So, what do we do now?” Berrigan asked calmly. He alone among the rest of them sat on a chair, sporting an uncomfortable looking wooden leg. It obviously hadn’t been made for him, and Lewin made a mental note to do something about that as soon as he found a large enough bit of wood to work with. He hadn’t made a prosthetic before, but he was confident enough in his skills with woodcarving to be certain he could make something that would suit Berrigan a lot better than the awkward looking thing he now wore.

“We’re losing resources by the day, and we’re losing Rangers even faster than that.” Added Samdash, in a considerably less calm tone that bordered on blame. With a heavy sigh, Crowley nodded, the weight of this knowledge evident in the way he held himself – an exhausted dignity, Lewin thought. “Stuart, Nick, Alun, Truscott, Nicholl, Liam. And that’s just in the last week.” Lewin narrowed his eyes, not sure what Samdash’s goal was. It wasn’t like there were any of them who didn’t know who had died. “He killed Pritchard. How are we supposed to stop him if Pritchard couldn’t do it?” The gathered Rangers went very quiet at the mention of Pritchard, watching Crowley for his response. He looked tense, sitting up a little straighter as Samdash spoke.

“Because we know what he wants.” Halt said quietly. Swearing quietly under his breath, Lewin noticed him sitting by Crowley’s chair for the first time. Even amongst the Rangers, he was an unnerving, mysterious figure, who had never been given to socialisation even before Pritchard’s death. Since that fateful day, it was rare to hear his voice at all.

“What’s that then?” Almost lying down on the shingle, Leander spoke up. A murmur of agreement rippled around the group.

“Power. Revenge. To control as much as he can.” He replied in the same quiet, unreadable tone. Looking suspiciously from Crowley to Halt and then back again, Lewin realised that the two of them were hiding something.

“What does he want revenge for?” Lewin asked, noticing the glance that they exchanged.

“I framed him for murder.” The smile that lurked at the corners of his mouth looked dangerous. “Although, to be fair, he did poison… that person.” Glancing sideways at one another, Lewin and Jurgen came to the same conclusion – that whoever Morgarath had poisoned, Halt and Crowley were protecting them for some reason.

“So it’s your fault he’s here?” Hissed Samdash. Frowning, Lewin noticed Halt’s infinitesimal flinch at the accusation, the way he watched Samdash with disdain, the ever-present cold fury flickering like a fire in the depths.

“Morgarath would have attacked us anyway, even if Halt wasn’t here.” Crowley said in a voice that was laced with anger. Perhaps realising how far he had overstepped, Samdash averted his eyes, staring at a pebble as though it held the secrets of the universe. “He wants power. We are the power in these parts – at least, we used to be. If he manages to take us out, he controls the plains.” That made sense, Lewin thought. It was what he would do, were he to try taking over the plains – although, he thought, he would probably attempt do so with the help of the Rangers, rather than acting against them.

“So we know what he wants. How do we defeat him?” He said, to a grateful smile from Crowley.

“Morgarath walks on a knife’s edge of mental stability. If we can put him in a position where he has to choose between revenge and power, he will fall. Then we’ll have a chance of defeating him.” All for a chance, Lewin thought grimly, as he listened to Halt. Still, people got rash when they lost control, and people who got rash made mistakes.

“That could work.” Lewin said decisively. His approval was echoed quietly by the rest of the assembled group. “We’d have to set up some kind of bait. A trap.” He looked carefully at Halt as he said so and noticed the look of deep thought that settled on his face. So did Crowley, who leaned forwards in his chair and stared hard at Halt, as if in disapproval or anger.

“No.” He said shortly. “Absolutely not.” He held Halt’s gaze for several long seconds, after which the shorter Ranger looked away, evidently having lost whatever argument they had held in that silence. Crowley’s tone brokered no further discussion. “We don’t use Rangers as bait.” Shrugging, Lewin sat back, not particularly disappointed at having his idea shot down.

“How does Harrison’s mission come into this?” Asked Samdash. “Or is it meant to be a secret?” There was a note of spite in his voice that was not entirely unexpected.

“Harrison’s what?” Smiling infuriatingly as he realised that he knew something Crowley didn’t, Samdash shrugged. It was perhaps not the best move he could have made, as Halt looked on the verge of punching him as it was.

“His mission.” He replied, with mock confusion. Realising what his insistence meant, Lewin swore softly and almost inaudibly. Plotting, he thought. He wondered what it was Harrison had been planning on doing – what it was he was going to do.

“He doesn’t have one. Liam was just killed, there’s no way he should be-”

“He left the Gorge about five minutes ago.” With that same infuriating shrug, Samdash interrupted him. There was a long moment of stunned silence.

“Shit.” Said Crowley, with feeling. Meeting Farrel’s eyes, Lewin considered their conversation the previous evening. He wondered again what Harrison had been plotting. A sensation of dread rose in his throat.

“What’s the plan?” Berrigan asked calmly, cutting through the tension. Giving him a grateful look, Crowley took a deep, calming breath.

“We have to go after him.” He replied, holding his head up high as he looked around the group.

“Should we wait for Gilan? We could need the manpower if it comes to a fight.” Avoiding eye contact, Clarke nonetheless spoke clearly and confidently. Even at the best of times, he didn’t like eye contact – or close contact of any kind, really – and with emotions running high as they were, he would be even less inclined to look up.

“We don’t have the time. At best, he’s a few days away. At worst, a week or more.” That wasn’t really the worst that could have happened, Lewin knew, but he didn’t bother arguing the point. They already knew, and from the nervous look that Halt and Crowley exchanged, they were trying not to think about it. “We’ll leave in five minutes. First and second branches only.” Crowley looked around at them, standing up. “Clarke, you’re in charge until we get back.” As everyone else got to their feet, brushing bits of pebble and grit off their clothes, Lewin caught some emotion he couldn’t quite name lingering on Halt’s face – something between dread and acceptance. Again, he was struck by the idea that Halt was hiding something important from them and wondered how deadly his secret would prove to be. It had been deadly already, he supposed. “What are you waiting for?” Spurring them into action, Crowley raised his voice. It cracked like a whip, full of authority. Lewin wondered, briefly, how he did that. Then he moved, running to the carved-out section of the Gorge walls where he and the rest of the second branch had unpacked. He and Jurgen reached it at the same time, which he was pleased about. Lately, they had been going running in the early morning, doing laps of the lake with Leander. It was paying off – Lewin felt like his lungs were almost in tatters as he fought to stay ahead.

He packed quickly, with the ease born of years of practice. It was one of the many skills that Rangers weren’t necessarily taught, but none the less all acquired. He saddled Fox securely, attaching enough supplies for two days of hard riding – enough to take them to Morgarath’s compound and back. There was little doubt in his mind as to where Harrison would be heading.

There seemed to be little doubt in Crowley’s mind either. He rode directly after the storm, heading for the black line on the horizon that was leading them to Morgarath. Lewin followed after him in silence.


	16. Five of Wands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry.
> 
> again.
> 
> we're getting there though! four more chapters!
> 
> \- Jay

Berrigan had convinced Egon to tie him to his saddle before they left the Gorge, passing a long leather cord around his waist multiple times before securing it to the horn of the saddle. He didn’t want to hold them back, and he’d only ridden once since losing his leg. That feeling, of losing his balance every time there was a slight movement beneath him was one he never wanted to experience again. While much of horse riding, particularly at speed, was about clinging on with his thighs and hoping for the best – something Berrigan could still do – his stump was still raw and he didn’t want to put too much strain on himself this soon after losing his leg. Of course, there were also all the intricate signals to be relearnt, for him and Candor. He groaned quietly to himself at the thought of it.

_Penny for your thoughts?_ Sensing his worsening mood, Candor steadied her pace as much as possible. Berrigan reached down and patted her shoulder gratefully, the leather ties cutting into his waist until he straightened back up.

“Thinking about the future.” He murmured. Candor snorted in response.

_You’ll be fine. You’ve got me to take care of you._ Smiling to himself, Berrigan leant down again to pat Candor’s shoulder. It meant more than he expected it to, he realised. With a gentle squeeze of his thighs, he urged Candor faster to catch back up with the rest of the Rangers.

The storm was ahead of them. Berrigan could hear it raging across the plains, and the destruction it had left was all too obvious, as their horses’ hooves sunk into the mud at every pace and broken branches littered the ground before them. At their current pace, they wouldn’t catch the storm, but it remained a constant presence ahead nonetheless as they rode in its desolate wake. There were clear signs of Harrison ahead of them. He’d ridden closer to the tail end of the storm, but not so close that his tracks had been rushed away – and he’d made no effort whatsoever to hide them himself. With every mile it became clearer where he was heading. The tension built and built, never quite reaching a crescendo in the silent wake of the storm. There was no sign of life in the mud-slick plains, nothing apart from the Rangers, riding fanned out in a line, and Harrison’s tracks, left as he galloped full tilt towards Morgarath. The Rangers galloped after him, riding almost through the night with only a brief pause to feed and water their horses and catch a few precious minutes of sleep. The Rangers themselves ate on the go, snacking on strips of jerky and sipping from their gourds of tepid, leathery water through the night and into the weakened dawn on the other side.

They arrived at Morgarath’s compound somewhere close to midday, with the sun burning high in the sky above them, the heat oppressive again as if making up for the days of cold and rain beforehand. Harrison was already there, raging up and down in front of the heavy wooden gates as he hammered on them with his fist, with the hilt of his saxe knife. The hollow, booming sound rang out across the plains as the Rangers pulled up in a loose line a little way back from him, none of them sure what to do. It wasn’t clear if Harrison had even seen them yet – or if he cared that they had come to bring him home. His grief was all-consuming, focussing him on revenge – the only action he could take that would come close to slightly quieting the guilt that he was drowning in.

“Come and face me!” He was yelling, straining his voice to be heard over the jeering and taunting of the guards. Those guards, stood on the rudimentary defensive tower by the gate, weren’t dressed in the familiar matt black of Morgarath’s underlings, but instead in forest green and gold trim – far more luxurious than the usual pragmatic garb found out on the plains. To his right, Halt tensed at the sight of them, ducking his head as if he was trying to avoid being recognised. “Morgarath! I’ll kill you for what you did!” It was a sentiment that Berrigan felt echoed in his own heart. He felt a fierce rush of anger and wondered if they might just leave Harrison to his revenge and take him home after Morgarath was dead.

“He doesn’t have a chance.” Halt murmured, a horrified note in his voice. Mostly, he just sounded resigned to some inevitable, deadly end.

“Then we have to hope that Morgarath will ignore him.” Shifting uncomfortably in his saddle, Berrigan made sure to keep his voice calm. To his surprise, Halt laughed. It was not a comforting sound – bitter in a way that was almost frightening. Berrigan tried to think of a time he had hear Halt genuinely laugh in the last eight months, and then considered that they hadn’t actually had a proper conversation since Pritchard had died.

“No, Morgarath will fight him.” He explained, a certain deadened tone to his voice that was unsettling even from Halt. “He’ll ride out in a minute or two, goad Harrison until he’s half mad with anger, and agree to one-to-one combat. A fight to the death. And then he’ll kill Harrison.” Turning his head slowly to look at Berrigan, there was a deadly certainty in his gaze. “He wants power, he wants revenge, but he revels in this. He enjoys it like nothing else.” Berrigan didn’t ask how Halt knew so much about Morgarath – enough to be able to predict his behaviour before he’d even appeared with such unshaking belief that he was correct. To some extent, he didn’t really want to know.

“Harrison’s a Ranger. A good Ranger.” He said, trying to reassure Halt as well as himself.

“Yes, he is. And we have to stop him, or he’s going to be a dead Ranger.” The grim certainty in Halt’s voice was terrible to hear. Berrigan tore his gaze away to watch Harrison as he wheeled his horse and rode back along the front of the gate.

“Harrison!” Riding forwards, Farrel broke their ranks, calling out to his friend. “Come back with us. Leave this.” Harrison ignored him, continuing to thump on the wood and shout for Morgarath. Before Farrel could reach him, the gates started to move, swinging inwards, and he lost what little of Harrison’s attention he had gained as they opened and revealed Morgarath. Harrison swung down from the saddle, eyes burning with hatred for the man before him.

Morgarath was a tall, pale man. His hair had gone white when he was a young man, and as an English baron he hadn’t had much access to sunlight to work up any kind of tan or a resistance to the sunlight. Even in the dry heat following the storm, he was almost entirely covered up in black clothes to avoid burning in the sun. His pale stare was unnerving, like the eyes of a corpse that still burned with hatred, with spite, with anger. With his hunched posture, beak-like nose and quick, tilting movements of his head, Berrigan thought that Morgarath looked incredibly like an albino vulture – one that hadn’t been eating too well, either. He didn’t look at Harrison as he strode out, instead regarding Halt with that odd, bird-like tilt to his head.

“O’Carrick.” He said, in a quiet voice that nonetheless carried. It took a moment for it to register that he meant Halt. Somehow, the idea of him having a last name had never occurred to Berrigan. “I assume you were the spy in the kitchens.” Halt ignored him, watching Crowley intently. It was deliberate, Berrigan thought, and it enraged Morgarath. “I have to thank you for the little sneaking Ranger you left for me. The boy spy. I enjoyed killing him.” Only a pace behind Halt, Will looked like he was seriously considering the merits of being sick. He was still a boy, Berrigan thought. Liam had just been a boy too. Beneath him, Candor sidestepped, as if the two of them could help to shield Will from sight and somehow protect him from the attention of Morgarath. The idea that Morgarath had taken the time to personally kill Liam was a horrifying one. It spoke to his despise of the Ranger corps and all its members, that he had bothered to lay that trap personally for Liam. Or perhaps, he thought, Liam had found something, had discovered a secret that Morgarath couldn’t afford to have out in the world. Berrigan wondered why it was that Liam had needed to die, so young and so very alone. He looked back at Crowley, saw his gaze entirely fixed on Halt, silently willing him to stay in place, to not do something rash like riding forwards and challenging Morgarath. The quiet magnetism of the scene – Halt seated on Abelard and shaking with silent rage, Morgarath advancing step by deliberate step, taunting him – drew all of their attention. It felt, Berrigan thought, like a scene from a play.

Then there was a hard, jarring, smacking sound. Satisfying, painful, solid. The sound of a fist connecting in exactly the way it had been meant to.

As Berrigan snapped his head back around to where Morgarath had been, Harrison landed again, knees flexing as he kept his balance perfectly. He’d jumped up and punched Morgarath in the nose with the full force of his downwards momentum behind his clenched fist. As the tall, pale man staggered backwards, Harrison spun on the spot, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him down. He looked almost laughably small next to Morgarath. The jump hadn’t just been for added power, Berrigan realised – Harrison wouldn’t have been able to reach Morgarath’s face properly without it.

“I said, face me, you coward.” His face was obscured, but Berrigan could imagine the hopeless, aching anger written all over it. Halt swore under his breath, a long litany of curses, almost too quiet to be heard.

“One to one.” Bringing his hand away from his face, Morgarath revealed his obviously broken nose, blood dripping bright and vibrant down over his thin lips. “Free choice of weapons.” He pushed Harrison’s hand away, smoothing his clothes down with disdain. “To the death.”

“Agreed.” Hissed Harrison before anyone could stop him. At a nod from Crowley, Farrel took his horse’s reins and retreated back to the line of Rangers silently watching. Halt hung his head in resignation, as if already mourning. Despite his certainty, Berrigan still held out hope for Harrison’s chances – if he did manage to kill Morgarath, their problems would be almost over. Then it would just be his followers left to deal with – Foldar being the worst of those – and then they might have a chance at peace again.

The combatants got into position, facing off five meters apart. The same Foldar, dandified as ever, emerged from the compound with a massive, evil looking broadsword, which he passed to Morgarath. Berrigan eyed the weapon with apprehension, remaining mounted as the rest of the Rangers, at a signal from Crowley, dismounted and stood next to their horses, fingers curling around the hits of their knifes or gripping onto their bows. Jurgen even nocked an arrow, keeping their bow lowered and refraining from drawing it back. They were more than confident in their ability to fire in less than a second if necessary, Berrigan knew.

All of them had to have that confidence, not only in their own abilities, but in those of their comrades. Trust was imperative out on the plains – trust was all they had, when it came to a fight. Trust in those they were fighting alongside, that when it came to it, they had each other’s backs, and they had the ability to hold any threat off for long enough. He wondered if Crowley would ask Jurgen to shoot Morgarath, if it went badly for Harrison. Despite everything, Berrigan clung to the belief that Harrison could win – would win – would survive that terrible broadsword and put a stop to Morgarath for once and for all.

“One of your friends can count us in.” Turning his hawk-like gaze on Halt, Morgarath’s thin, poisonous smile was evident, even at a distance. The smile of a killer, Berrigan thought, looking into Morgarath’s spiteful, pale eyes.

“I’ll do it.” With grim resignation in his voice Crowley strode forwards a few steps. There was a flash of disappointment on Morgarath’s face. “On five.” As he counted down slowly, Berrigan watched the barely contained fury and grief that made up Harrison, the controlled glee of Morgarath, the grim resignation in Halt’s dark, steady gaze. One day, he thought, he would make some kind of ballad out of this, and trade it for free meals until the day he died. Berrigan knew that the other Rangers didn’t think about retirement – they thought about dying in glory – but he longed for a time long in the future when he could choose a quiet life and play music across the plains. A peaceful end to a violent life.

Neither of them moved at first. Harrison still appeared to be clinging to the shreds of his restraint until Morgarath whispered something across the five meters that separated them, and then he lost it. Rushing him with a knife in each hand, Harrison shouted something wordless and pained. With a sick wet crunching sound, Morgarath swung the broadsword into Harrison’s side. He cried out in pain, his throwing knife dropping from his hand as he focussed all of his remaining energy on holding onto his saxe. Berrigan looked at Halt, horrified by what they were seeing. The same grim acceptance was on his face. He had been right, Berrigan thought. Harrison stood no chance. Around the heavy, deadly blade, his shirt had gone dark with blood.

“No.” Farrel whispered, sounding almost heartbroken as Morgarath withdrew the sword, pulling it roughly from Harrison’s side. There was a moment where Harrison swayed on his feet, only just managing to stay on his feet, and Berrigan hoped against hope that Morgarath would be merciful. He could see the pain on Harrison’s face as blood pooled at the corner of his mouth. Then Morgarath swung again in the same spot, almost cleaving him to the spine, and Harrison simply crumpled to the ground, sliding horribly off the blade, slick with his own blood. Time seemed to slow down and stretch out as Berrigan watched Harrison twitch twice and then fall still in the mud, slowly turning it a dark, sinister red around him. For several long seconds, Berrigan willed him to start breathing again, to deny reality and get up. Then Farrel dropped to his knees in the mud, tears rolling silently down his face, and he knew beyond a doubt that Harrison would never get back up again.


	17. Three of Swords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops I did it again
> 
> by it, I mean I nearly broke my goddamn ankle.
> 
> \- Jay

“Disappointing.” Morgarath said, nudging Harrison’s body casually with his boot. Farrel started forwards, only just held back by the combined efforts of Egon and Lewin. Jurgen, however, was not being restrained by anyone, and they stormed forwards, drawing their saxe knife.

“Stop that.” Glaring at Morgarath, Crowley’s voice was tight with barely repressed anger. “Jurgen, get Harrison.” Morgarath laughed.

“I don’t think that’s quite Harrison anymore.” He chuckled, nudging the body with his boot again. To their credit, Jurgen did not immediately fly into a rage and attempt to kill Morgarath, but stuck to their instructions, picking up Harrison’s body and walking slowly back to stand with the other Rangers. Morgarath turned on his heel, walking slowly back through the heavy gates that formed the entrance to his land.

“Jurgen, if he comes back onto the plains, you can put an arrow in his head.” He said in a calm voice that was just loud enough to be heard by Morgarath. They raised their bow slowly until it was aimed at Morgarath’s forehead, glaring at the guards.

“I’ll kill you!” Farrel was shouting. He’d managed to twist one arm free and was clawing at the air in front of him, trying to pull himself away from Lewin. “You coward, I’ll kill you. Come here and fight me yourself.” Morgarath regarded him coolly and then turned away, looking directly at Halt.

“So, Halt O’Carrick. How many more need to die?” Smiling dangerously, Halt didn’t speak - he was sure that if he did, he would say something he would regret. “The boy spy, your mentor, the Ranger at Picta, and Harrison. How many more?” Crowley felt his stomach drop, icy fear setting in.

“Picta?” He whispered, feeling sick. Gilan, he thought, forcing himself to keep standing.

“No.” Sneaking one shaking hand into Crowley’s, anchoring them to each other, Halt sounded like he was falling apart. Crowley felt like he was, too, barely masking the fear in his own voice.

“You know who I mean, then. He was tall, apparently, but not much more than a boy.”

“Not Gilan.” Crowley said. “Not Gilan.”

“He died alone.” Almost gleeful at the pain he was causing, hate burned in Morgarath’s dark eyes. “Alone, reaching for the gates.”

“What do you want?” Hissed Halt, so angry he could barely get the words out.

“Me?” The poisonous calm that coated Morgarath’s voice returned in full force, slippery and deceptive. “I want you dead, Halt O’Carrick. I want you to pay.”

“I don’t have any money.” He replied dryly, shrugging. There was a carefully constructed disinterest in his voice that only just masked his grief.

“You framed me for murder!” Laughing sharply at Morgarath, Halt appeared unphased by this accusation.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t have tried to murder me.” Halt shrugged again, infuriating in his calmness. “Perhaps you should have thought twice about making a deal with Ferris.” Getting more furious by the second, Morgarath sneered at Halt.

“I’ll kill you and your toad of a brother.”

“No.” Said Halt, smiling dangerously. “You won’t.” He stepped forwards, away from the other Rangers, who were masking their confusion admirably. “If he needs to die, I’ll do it myself.” Still walking forwards, Halt didn’t hesitate at the border of Morgarath’s land, walking directly between the gates without stopping. “And you can’t kill me, because you’re a coward”

“Halt.” Crowley said, stopping inbetween the gates. The tone in Halt’s voice was almost frightening. Don’t do this, he wanted to say.

“A coward?” Ignoring Crowley, Morgarath stepped forwards, closer to Halt. The tension was building again, like a train coming off the tracks, inevitable and destructive. “You insult me, on my own land, and you think you can just walk away?” He wanted to scream at them, to tell Halt to come back.

“Now that you mention it, yes I do.” Any moment now, he thought, the tension would snap like it had with Harrison and he would himself be as good as dead, lost, drifting untethered through the world without purpose or hope or meaning. Not Halt, he thought, please not Halt. He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep going without him.

“Then I challenge you. A fight to the death.” The spite and triumph in Morgarath’s voice was almost physically painful for Crowley to hear.

“No.” Crowley’s voice cracked out like a whip before he’d even realised he was speaking. “Halt, come back here.” He saw the rage on Morgarath’s face and felt a brief flash of hope at the sight, knowing that if he was foiling his plans, then he had to be doing something right.

“That’s right, do as you’re told.” Hissed Morgarath as Halt turned away from him. Heart in his mouth, Crowley reached out his hand to Halt, silently pleading with him to ignore Morgarath. The cold fury in his eyes was all too close to the breaking point – all the anger and exhaustion and grief he carried with him rising up, bit by bit. Thinking of Gilan, of Pritchard, of Liam and Harrison and the fifth branch, Crowley knew that neither of them could survive another tragedy.

“Ignore him.” Crowley pleaded desperately. “Stay with me.” A rush of relief overwhelmed him as Halt took his hand, letting himself be pulled back over the perimeter, back into Crowley’s arms as he held him as tight as he could.

“He killed Gilan.” Somewhere between angry and broken, Halt wrapped his arms around Crowley, clinging to him for support. “He killed our boy. Our son.” While Morgarath raged only a few meters away, they held onto one another as if they might shatter otherwise.

“Don’t let him kill you. Don’t let him win.” Still pleading, shoulders shaking with the effort of keeping everything together, Crowley let his head rest on Halt’s shoulder. With the familiar roughness of his shirt on Crowley’s cheek, the points and edges of his angular build pressing against him, Crowley felt almost safe despite the furious, maddened shouting only a few meters away from them. The smell of woodsmoke and clean, fresh air clung to him, comforting and familiar in the face of so much grief.

“He killed Gilan.” Halt repeated numbly, as if that was the only thought he could focus on. Their son, Crowley thought. Gilan had been their son, or as good as, and they had let him down. Crowley felt a pang of guilt and pain, sudden and sharp as it ripped through his heart. Rather than process Gilan’s death at the hands of Morgarath’s bandits, Crowley’ s emotions had all but shut down – for which he was oddly grateful, certain that the grief would tear him apart completely if he was forced to confront it.

“And he’ll pay for that. I promise.” But don’t do it alone, he thought, don’t get yourself killed trying to get revenge for everything he’s done, don’t let him win. “We’ll do it together. Like always.” The thought of Gilan being dead was starting to sink in, and he felt himself fighting off the waves of emotion that threatened to drown him, to pull him down into the depths and drain him completely. It was difficult, almost impossible, to accept that he would never see his son again, that he had died alone and far from home.

“Together.” Halt agreed, standing a little taller. Relief flooded through Crowley as he realised the tension had gone, no longer lurking, deadly and sinister, on the fringes of his mind. He hugged Halt a little bit tighter and felt Halt’s arms tighten briefly around him in return.

“Let’s go home.” Releasing him, Crowley stepped backwards. “Stay with me. Let’s go home.” Relieved to see Halt nod in agreement, he held onto his hand, turning them both away from Morgarath’s compound. Step by step, they walked back to their horses. Berrigan was saying something, instructing the other Rangers as Crowley and Halt mounted. Still shouting and screaming at Halt, trying to rile him up again, Morgarath stood between the gates of his compound, unable to do anything but watch as they rode away.

“Harrison was a good friend. A brother to us all, someone who could be relied upon no matter what.” Crowley took a deep breath, forcing the pain back, forcing himself to remain strong as he drew to the end of the eulogy. The weight of his death pressed down on his shoulders. “He died a hero, seeking to avenge Liam.” He kept his head held high, struggling to keep his voice steady. Halt’s hand in his felt like the only tether keeping him from breaking down. Even that tether was loose – Halt was trembling, almost unnoticeably, holding back the tears. Taking another deep breath, Crowley forced himself to continue, looking out over the silent crowd of Rangers. “Unfortunately, we aren’t just here to mourn Harrison.” He said, keeping his gaze above their heads to avoid any possibility of meeting someone’s eye. If Gilan had been there, he thought, he would have ended up looking at him anyway. “We… we found out that Gilan was… was killed on his mission to Picta. He never reached the town.” His hand ached with pain as Halt clung on too tight. Crowley tightened his own grip, feeling as though the ground was about to fall out from under his feet. This, he knew, was the part where he should talk about what a loss they had suffered – about who Gilan had been, how he had lived. “I don’t have the words to –” He tried, voice shaking, and found that he couldn’t go on, that the words refused to come out. His face felt wet, though he couldn’t remember starting to cry. “I’m sorry.” Crowley said, looking down at Harrison’s grave. Another deep breath, in and out slowly as he tried to keep his emotions in check. “Gilan is – he was –” His voice disappeared into a choked sob.

“Come on.” Merron said, stepping forwards. “You shouldn’t have to do this.” There was a quiet murmur of agreement from the assembled crowd. “You either, Halt. We all know how much Gilan meant to you two.” Guilt surged through him, sudden and fierce. He couldn’t help but feel responsible, as though he had sent Gilan to his death – which, he thought tiredly, was not necessarily an inaccurate conclusion to draw. Merron had stepped in front of them and was saying something that sounded too far off for Crowley to make out.

He managed, for a moment, to ignore the curiosity and pity in the gazes of the Rangers glancing at him and Halt – to tune out the listing of everything Gilan had been and feel the raw pain aching through his bones, the empty, devouring loss that refused to let him rest, that poisoned him with guilt and responsibilities and regret. His tears were warm on his cheeks. Halt rested his head on Crowley’s shoulder quietly. There was a hole in the world where Gilan ought to be, Crowley thought, one that could never be filled. Again, his gaze scanned over the heads of the Rangers, half hoping to find Gilan inexplicably standing there, as lively as ever. The bowed heads of the Rangers were broken only by Will, standing at one side of the group and staring up at the oak tree, tears running down his face. Crowley felt even more guilty. The boy had, since joining the Rangers, made two friends, and they were both now dead, killed by Morgarath. He wondered if Will regretted leaving Araluen. He wondered if Will wanted revenge, or if he felt guilty, or if, perhaps, he just felt lonely and sad.

With the setting sun painting the Gorge with golden light, Halt laid Crowley down on their straw mattress and crouched down next to him. “Rest now. Get some sleep.” He murmured, running his fingers through Crowley’s hair tenderly. It was a soothing sensation, and Crowley thought about the way he usually plaited it before bedding down. He didn’t quite know if the familiar routine would make things better or worse, and so put the thought aside and instead frowned, struggling back into a sitting position, fighting against the bone deep exhaustion.

“I can’t. What if something happens –”

“I’ll watch over you.” Halt said quietly, kissing Crowley as he pushed him gently back down. “If anything happens, I’ll deal with it. You can sleep, honey.” A part of him wanted to give in, to close his eyes and let oblivion slip in.

“You need rest too.” He argued, reaching up to Halt’s collar and pulling him down onto the mattress beside him. For a moment, he worried about someone hearing him, and then realised that Will was still out around the Gorge, and everyone else was dead. The knowledge didn’t weigh on him as much as it usually did. Something about the smell of woodsmoke clinging to Halt’s thin undershirt was oddly calming.

“I’ll rest once that bastard is dead.” Halt said firmly, a note of bitter hatred in his voice that quickly faded as Crowley began to protest again. “You won’t. You’ll be worrying about the next bastard.” He was right, Crowley knew, sighing heavily as he tilted his head sideways to rest on Halt’s shoulder. “Get some sleep, honey.” There was no need to ask Halt to stay with him as he closed his eyes and tried to let the quiet of the evening soak through him and drag him down into a deep, restful oblivion. He couldn’t hear much from beyond their curtain, shut tight around them. The crackling of the fires was muted, and any quiet talking from the Rangers sitting around them was unrecognisable, as though heard from underwater. With his eyes closed and the gentle pressure of Halt’s shoulder against his, Crowley could almost imagine that they were alone in their existence, that everything else was just the echoes of a dying world.

Halt started singing the funeral song again, just humming it at first. The lyrics filtered through slowly in snatches, and the lonely, sad melody made something ache in sympathy in Crowley’s heart. As Halt began to section off his hair and plait them back together with easy, practiced movements, he thought of Gilan, dead outside the gates of Picta, and resolved that, once it was all over, he and Halt would make the trip up north and find out as much as they could. Perhaps, he thought, they would even find the boyfriend they weren’t supposed to know about – Lewis, the medic – and then they could tell him what had happened to Gilan. Or, he thought with a quiet sigh, he might be able to tell them more about their son’s final moments.

Halt’s quiet singing lulled him to sleep.


	18. The Tower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops only two more chapters after this....
> 
> and another book I guess
> 
> there's going to be uh... death, in the next one, so fair warning. 
> 
> \- Jay

In Araluen, chaos reigned. Sometime before dawn, a gang of armed men had ridden into town. They were not Rangers. Horace had been watching out for the Rangers, in the two months since they’d left with Will. It wasn’t that he wanted to see them again, necessarily. When Alyss had told him that Will was gone with the Rangers, Horace had felt betrayed, at first, and had tried to cover that up by telling her that it was good riddance, that Will had been a troublemaker and a nuisance who wouldn’t be missed. He’d regretted that when she left a week later with the courier wagons. Horace still hadn’t apologised for the raging argument they’d had – lasting four days in total before she stopped talking to him – and that weighed heavily on him, as loath as he was to admit it. With George and Alyss and Will gone, Horace felt lonely, like he was falling behind his childhood friends by staying in Araluen to train with Sheriff Arald and his posse. Of course, Jenny was still in Araluen, and quickly becoming one of the most influential people in the town due to her job at the Saloon, but even with her still around, Horace found himself missing the others. Particularly Will, to his great surprise. He’d found himself becoming good friends with Cassandra, Mayor Duncan’s daughter, in the months since Will had left, but even so, he longed for Will to return so that he could try and make amends for years of teasing that he suspected had verged on bullying.

So he had been watching out for the Rangers, and was, consequentially, the first to see the armed men riding into town. They were definitely not Rangers. He knew that at first sight. There were at least twenty of them, though more were filing in on the horizon, and they were mostly dressed in a flat black that blended into the winter night. A few were clad in green and gold, with chain mail glinting out from under their clothes.

They set the Saloon on fire. The crackling flames burned brighter than the weak dawn, lighting the town up. Horace stared out his window in shock and ended up looking straight into the eyes of a man he recognised from the wanted posters. Foldar. The man smiled. It was a nasty smile, and as he took a burning torch from one of the other bandits, Horace realised he was going to burn the prison, and Horace himself in his room above it. He scrambled down and ran to the door, grabbing his sword in its scabbard and bouncing it off the walls as he shouted, trying to alert as many people as he could.

“Fire! Fire!” Lungs burning as though the smoke was already lying thick in the building, Horace pounded down the stairs and out into the street, ducking Foldar and keeping moving. “Fire! We’re under attack!” He dodged sword swings and one club that almost connected with his ribs before Rodney grabbed the back of his thin shirt and pulled him back so that they were stood side by side, facing the horde of bandits.

“You need to find the Rangers.” Rodney said, as they stepped into the fray, drawing their swords in unison. “I’ll cover your escape, get to the stables and then go.”

“I don’t know where they are.” Almost panicking, Horace blocked a blow and pushed the sword away from his face.

“Head south west.” Sounding unperturbed as he slid his own sword between a bandit’s ribs, Rodney didn’t turn to look at Horace. That was a level of distraction he couldn’t afford in the chaos of the battle. “Go! We’ll keep them busy.” Horace needed no further encouragement. He ran. He’d never been a particularly fast runner – Will had always beaten him with ease – but he managed to keep away from the attacks of the bandits as he sprinted past Sheriff Arald, past David and Pauline and Duncan, all engaged in a fight for their lives. Neither Jenny nor Chubb could be seen – he wondered if they were still in the burning Saloon.

The stables were unbearably hot. Horace released all the horses, letting them out of their stalls, and most of them ran, escaping the heat of the fire crawling over the walls of the Saloon. Horace caught the bridle of one who remained, a solid, long legged horse, and dragged a saddle from the pegs on the wall over its back, making sure that it was secured. He mounted up, sweating through his thin undershirt as the flames licked closer. With a clatter of hooves, Horace urged the horse out of the stables, ducking to avoid the beam across the entrance.

Outside, there was a tall, pale man seated on a black horse who had not been there before. Horace almost rode into him, just about managing to rein in his horse in time. Without warning, the tall man struck out, swinging a massive broadsword at Horace, who managed to block it with a slither of steel as he brought up his own sword. His arm felt deadened from the blow, the jarring feeling sliding down to his shoulder and setting every nerve on fire. Then Rodney was there, shouting at Horace to get out, to move, and, almost automatically, he did, clapping his heels to the horse’s flanks and tightening his grip on the reins. As he passed, the tall man took another swing, but Horace rolled sideways in the saddle to avoid it, and as he did so, his horse reared and kicked out, catching the black mount of the tall, pale man in the ribs. Horace dug his knees and his horse took off again, jumping the fence around the stables and then wheeling at a tug on the reins, ready for another attack. No matter what Rodney had told him to do, Horace couldn’t leave him to face that broadsword. He was too late. As he turned, the tall man swung down, utterly ignoring Rodney’s blocking motion, and Horace thought he saw the blade sink into his mentor, almost splitting him in half from his head down to midway through his chest. Then he pulled on the reins again and his horse took off, heading south west.

They rode until mid-morning, when Horace stopped and dismounted. He was violently sick onto the hard-packed ground, unable to remember the details of what he’d seen, like his mind had decided to scrub out the death of his mentor. Horace half wanted to turn around and ride back. Eventually, he stood up again, thighs screaming as they stretched out from a crouching position. With slow, awkward movements, he mounted back up again and rode on.

He was escorted into the Gorge by four Rangers he didn’t recognise, who kept their hands on the hilts of their knives as he rode with them through the narrow entrance and out into the cavern. The one with red hair, the one with an air of authority around him, was waiting for him with a fifth Ranger who he didn’t recognise and Will. There was shouting in the background, other Rangers mounting up and arming themselves.

“Horace!” Will said. He was gripping the reins of a horse of his own, a shaggy, barrel-chested beast like those of the others. There was a note of something like relief in his voice as he greeted him before looking up at the red-haired Ranger as if expecting something from him. With a tired smile, the Ranger nodded at Will.

“I assume he’s attacked Araluen.” Horace had to remind himself that the Rangers’ had uncanny powers of deduction, and that this strange, short, red haired man had probably read his mind. He nodded, eyes wide with something like awe.

“Yes. Araluen is under attack. Rodney said to come and ask for your help.” Feeling suddenly sick again, Horace remembered what had happened to him. The Ranger nodded again, a look of grim determination settling on his face.

“So, Morgarath has made his move.” He said, in a voice laced with deadly intent. “Will, take Horace and his horse to get supplies – see if there are any clothes in his size.” Then he turned around, shouting for someone called Halt, and Horace realised he and Will were alone for the first time in a long time. The thought appeared to occur to Will as well as Horace dismounted silently.

“Will, I wanted to say –” Horace started and then trailed off as he realised he didn’t know what he wanted to say. There was something different about Will, he realised, a tense anger and a kind of grief that had aged him in the last few months.

“This way.” He said, looking up at Horace as he dropped his own reins and started off away from the lake in the middle of the cavern. Horace dismounted and lead his horse after Will quietly. “Does he have a name?” Turning back over his shoulder, Will gestured at Horace’s horse.

“Kicker.” He’d named the horse on the way there, when he’d had too much time to think about what had happened. It seemed appropriate. The solid kick he had given the pale man’s horse was the only good thing he could remember happening. “He’s called Kicker.”

“Mine’s called Tug.” Will replied, and Horace felt secure enough to hurry his steps and walk side by side with him. “Who died?” The question surprised Horace. It was as much the fact that Will was talking to him without any trace of fear or anger in his voice that startled him as the fact that Will seemed to be picking up the mind-reading techniques of the Rangers.

“Rodney. There was a tall man, pale looking. He had this massive sword, and he –” Trailing off, Horace fought back another wave of nausea. He doubted, somehow, that the Rangers would appreciate him throwing up in their home while they prepared to ride out. Will looked almost as sick as he did.

“Morgarath.” He said, and then fell silent. “He killed Liam. And Harrison.” There was a long pause, during which Horace tried to think of something to say, a way to say he was sorry for Will’s loss. “And he had the fifth branch killed. And… and Gilan.” The last name seemed familiar, somehow, and Horace opened his mouth to ask before Will noticed and looked at him with a terrible grief in his eyes. “He was the tall one.”

“What about the other three?” Horace asked, after a moment. He remembered five Rangers in total, the red haired one and the tall one being two of them. The look of pain in Will’s eyes almost made him regret asking.

“He killed Liam and Harrison.” Repeating himself numbly, Will didn’t seem to want to look at Horace. He stopped abruptly and turned left, pointing towards a split in the rock. “There’s clothes in there. You’ll need something warmer. I’ll get the supplies.” Then he turned away and disappeared into another split in the rock. Horace looped Kicker’s reins around a hook driven into the rock and then went to look for clothes that weren’t designed to sleep in. In the end, he found trousers that were too long, a shirt that was too short, but just managed to fit over his broad shoulders, and a thick poncho the colour of dust. When he emerged, Will passed him a bag and a gourd of water. There was dried food parcelled in the bottom of the bag, which Horace took a cursory look at before dropping it in Kicker’s saddlebag.

“What now?” He asked, as they made their way back to the entrance, where Will’s horse stood waiting, exactly where he had left it. Kicker, Horace knew, would not have shown the same obedience.

“We’re going to kill Morgarath.” Will replied in a grim tone that struck Horace as being similar to one of the other Rangers that he vaguely knew from their visits to Araluen. As they reached Will’s horse – Tug, he remembered – another Ranger rode up, dismounting and giving Will a quick hug.

“I’m here, kid.” He said quietly and looked at Horace with something between disinterest and disdain. “This is Horace, then?”

“I am. Who are you?” Horace replied with a bravado he did not feel. The Ranger almost smiled. He was, Horace thought, more like a Ranger than any other Ranger he had ever seen.

“I’m Halt. Sorry to hear about Rodney. He’s not the first good man Morgarath has killed.” His grim manner was oddly comforting. Evidently Will thought so too, because he stood close to Halt, looking more at ease in his presence than he had while he and Horace had been alone. Horace didn’t think that was unusual – he and Will had been antagonistic at best for as long as he could remember. “We’re going to Araluen. Are you coming?”

“Yes.” He replied, raising his chin slightly in defiance. Halt gave him a long, appraising look and then nodded, the disdain in his voice replaced with something close to approval.

“Stick with Will then.” Nodding, Horace looked over at Will and realised that he wasn’t being asked to protect him, but rather the other way around. Beneath the grief and the tense anger, he realised, Will had changed in other ways. He carried the same knives at the rest of the Rangers, the twin scabbard at his hip, and while his bow was different in shape, it looked no less deadly for it. Horace climbed into his saddle as Will and Halt did the same, making sure to manoeuvre Kicker to stand next to Tug. The Rangers formed a mounted crowd around and mostly behind them, all waiting. Then the red-haired Ranger rode through the crowd and turned around at the front, facing them all. His gaze seemed to linger on Halt for a moment before he looked out over the crowd.

“I’m sure you know why we’re riding out by now. Morgarath has attacked Araluen, and they need our help. We’ve all lost friends to him. I can’t guarantee that we won’t lose more.” The silence between his words was deadened. Horace could see the way that the loss he spoke of was weighing heavily on him. “This is our best chance in a long time to stop him. He’s not holed up in that compound, he’s out in the open.” Again, the deadened silence stretched out as the red-haired Ranger looked at each of them in turn. “We’re going to kill him. We’re going to finish this. They might be dangerous, but we’re Rangers.” The menace in his words sent a chill down Horace’s spine as he glanced sideways to see Will flexing his fingers around the larger knife hilt at his hip. He wondered if Will had ever killed anyone – he himself hadn’t, and the thought of doing so scared him a little, though he would never admit to the fear curdling in the pit of his stomach. A grim certainty settled in as he thought of the way Rodney’s body, still blurred of details in his mind’s eye, had slumped to the ground, lifeless.

Horace promised himself, as they began to ride forwards out of the cavern, that he was going to kill Morgarath himself for that.


	19. The World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are almost there!
> 
> \- Jay

They left the Gorge in a cloud of dust, with the ash of their campfires still clinging to them. Will thought that he’d never seen so many Rangers in one place before – although he couldn’t remember if the found outweighed the dead, or if his mind was tricking him with hope when they were riding to what could mean their death. He couldn’t help but feel that it was a final riding out for the Rangers, like in some kind of children’s story filled with heroes and villains and happy endings – although he couldn’t help but doubt the idea that there would be any happy ending for them. His blood ran cold at that particular thought and he forced himself to keep his gaze forwards, to not look around and wonder who among them was going to die in the battle for Araluen. Icy fear wound through him. It prickled at the back of his neck, filled up his lungs, gripped tightly around his heart as they rode across the desolate, empty, lonely plains towards Araluen.

Will was scared. He was able to admit that to himself, though he couldn’t say it out loud. Riding next to him, Horace seemed to be unperturbed, stoic in the face of what could be their doom, but Will felt fear, sick and persistent, winding its way through his veins. The idea of facing Morgarath again was a terrifying one. His mind kept replaying the sight of that broadsword disappearing into Harrison’s side, two times in succession, and then the gaping wound in his side that stretched and twisted horribly as they had ridden home. He still couldn’t quite believe that Gilan was dead. It was a thought that seemed to be the wrong shape to fit with the idea of Gilan he had – full of life, energetic, always joking around. With Gilan and Liam dead, Will felt lonely. He couldn’t quite believe that they were going back to Araluen, even under such circumstances. Accelerating to catch up with Halt, Will glanced sideways at him, at the grim expression of focus on his face.

“Halt?” With a heavy sigh, Halt turned and raised an eyebrow at Will. It wasn’t exactly encouraging, but Will continued anyway. “Are you going to kill Morgarath?” He asked, concern in his wide eyes.

“I’m certainly going to try my best.” Halt replied grimly. Seemingly subconsciously, his hand drifted to the leather wrapped hilt of his saxe knife, fingers drumming distractedly on it in a brisk staccato rhythm that matched the drumming of Abelard’s hooves on the hard-packed soil. As Tug cantered below him, Will found that the same rhythm started to drum inside his head, almost like a heartbeat. The grass was short and didn’t disturb them at all, didn’t break up the rolling plains as they stretched out to the point where the sky touched the earth.

“I want him to die.” He said decisively, raising his chin slightly. “He killed Liam.” That death, more than any of the others, had hurt Will. Whether it was the fact that he had been the one to find Liam, or that they had grown to be good friends before he’d been murdered, it was Liam’s death that haunted Will the most, that woke him in the middle of the night with choking, desperate nightmares. Halt regarded Will for a second, head slightly tilted as he frowned at him.

“One way or another, it ends today.” Eventually, with a slow, even tone to his voice, Halt spoke. “You don’t need to be scared of him, Will.” It was almost reassuring, but the terror of Morgarath welled up in Will, unrelenting and almost overwhelming.

“He killed Liam.” Will repeated, trying to keep the fear out of his voice in case Horace was listening. He still didn’t want him to know that he was afraid – some mixture of pride and resentment kept him from fully trusting Horace with this weakness. Of course, Halt would be able to tell. Will was almost certain that Halt knew everything – and if he didn’t, he would be able to find it out.

“He’s just a man. A poisoner, and a coward. Whoever he’s killed, whatever he’s done, he’s just a man, and he’ll die like one.” There was deadly certainty in his voice, fingers still drumming on the hilt of his knife. Halt turned his head to look back at Will with something that was almost a smile, but without any of the warmth. “Luckily, we’re Rangers.” Frowning, Will wanted to say that being Rangers didn’t change the fact that they were human, or that being human didn’t mean Morgarath wasn’t dangerous, but, looking at Halt, he had the distinct impression that, human or not – a distinction he still wasn’t sure on – whatever Halt put his mind to, he could and would succeed in. Instead, Will nodded, dropping back to canter alongside Horace and Kicker.

“He’s more terrifying than Morgarath is.” Horace muttered, presumably intending to be unheard. Shooting him a confused look, Will almost didn’t understand for a moment. While Halt was unnerving, grim, and harsh as the land they rode over, he didn’t think he was scared of him – he knew he had been, at one point, and he knew that he wasn’t anymore, but he couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment that it had changed from one to the other.

“No.” He said, slowly, shaking his head as he drew out the word. Horace frowned and opened his mouth as if to argue the point – anything to pass the time – but then seemed to change his mind, shrugging non-committally as if agreeing to disagree. It was a surprising decision. Will considered the thought that Horace had grown up in the course of his training so far. He didn’t notice Halt turning back around to face the front of the train of Rangers, or the way that Horace dropped back slightly, seeming to want to put distance between himself and Halt. Falling silent, Will gazed towards the horizon, hoping that Araluen was still somehow intact.

They stopped a little way outside the town, Crowley looking grimly over the group as they gathered in a rough crowd. There was something close to disappointment in the look Horace gave them, as if he expected them to form up into some kind of formation, instead of simply stopping close enough to hear their orders. Somehow, Will ended up near the front, half a pace behind Halt, with Horace next to him, still looking somewhat upset by their informality. There was a tension in the air, mingling with the smell of smoke and the sounds of violence, clear and unmistakable on the persistent breeze that blew from Araluen towards them. Horace was pale with what looked like fear, half standing in the stirrups to try and see past Crowley into the town. Will felt that same fear, wondering if any more friends of his had died, if they had been cut down by Morgarath or his bandits – or by the guards that accompanied him wherever he went, the ones in green and gold that almost seemed to scare Halt. Crowley cleared his throat once and then seemed to relax, shoulders slumping slightly as if he was letting go of all his doubts and worries in that moment.

“Halt, take branches two, three, four, and six. Attack from the other end of Araluen. Branch six, stay at distance and provide cover fire. Branch ten, you do the same on this end.” He sounded matter of fact about it, dividing them up with a decisiveness that didn’t invite any discussion. In that mood, Will wasn’t sure if any of them would be able to argue with him – Crowley had an ability to command that was almost at odds with his outward personality. Halt turned Abelard and glanced around at the leaders of those branches – Berrigan, Samdash, Berwick, and Kane. Without a word, he touched his heels to Abelard’s flanks and took off, the branches in pursuit as he rode out in a wide arc around Araluen. After a moment’s hesitation, Will urged Tug after him, not checking to see if Horace had followed him. He couldn’t bear the idea of being left behind again – it made his throat close up in fear.

There was no battle cry as they reached the other end of Araluen’s main street. Halt just looked backwards over his shoulder, nodding once at Will, and then took off, swinging down from Abelard as he reached the battle and disappearing into the fray as the other Rangers followed. Some remained mounted, but Will threw himself down out of the saddle, rolling as he hit the ground, unwilling to bring Tug too close to the slashing blades. Where the Saloon and jail had once stood, there were now only glowing embers and blackened, scorched, splintered beams of wood. Will ducked an axe, stabbing blindly to his left and continuing to press forwards into the heaving, battling mass of bodies and blood and death.

Then he saw Morgarath, and his vision went red with rage. The tall, pale man was laying left and right into the crowd, his massive broadsword clearing space around his black horse. Will pressed forwards, anger clouding his judgement as he forced his way into range of that vicious broadsword. He realised that he didn’t really know what to do. Despite the imminent danger, he didn’t really want to hurt Morgarath’s horse. His indecision was solved when Horace, still mounted on Kicker, rode past him and into Morgarath, kicking his feet clear of the stirrups and tackling the man out of his saddle and onto the ground. Kicker kept attacking, rearing and bringing his hooves down again and again as he drove the black horse backwards and away from the three of them.

As Morgarath rose from the ground, Will dropped into a crouch, swaying gently from side to side as he tried to predict his next move. Horace held himself steady, sword up and ready to strike or defend. Watching Morgarath as he unfolded himself, tall and menacing, Will felt a chill of fear cutting through the anger and desire for revenge boiling through him. As he stood, Morgarath hefted his sword and swung it, with no finesse to distract from the pure power, at Horace. With a jangling, screeching sound as the blades connected, Horace blocked the blow. Will saw the bandit attempting to attack Horace from behind while he was occupied and threw his smaller knife so that it sunk into the man’s shoulder. He crumpled, and Will skidded to a halt next to him, pulling his knife out and turning around to see Morgarath’s heavy broadsword aimed at his head. For a moment, his life flashed before his eyes, and then Horace blocked the sword stroke meant for Will’s head and held it there, the steel of his blade slithering against Morgarath’s with that same slithering, jangling, screeching sound. Before Will really knew what he was doing, his arm came up and he had buried his saxe knife up to the hilt in Morgarath’s chest, gripping onto the leather as tight as he could as he looked up and saw the hateful light fade from Morgarath’s eyes. There was almost no resistance. The heavy, razor sharp blade, with the force of Will’s rising behind it, slid in easily and hit something vital. Morgarath’s grip on his sword disappeared, and it clattered to the ground. While Will remained frozen, unable to move or think or do anything, Horace bought his own blade around, and it sunk into Morgarath’s side with a sickening crunch. Will stepped back automatically, stumbling with his saxe held out in front of him, and then Morgarath fell sideways and hit the ground, dead. Numbly, Will considered that he had just killed someone for the first time. His hands were slick with blood as they held the hilt of his saxe knife as tight as possible.

It should have been a decisive moment, but the battle still raged around them, and so Horace and Will dove back into the fray. It was when Will was pushing a bandit back off his short, broad blade that he noticed Halt and Crowley, pinned against a wall and fighting ferociously against an onslaught that seemed never ending. As Will watched them, distracted, something went wrong. Perhaps Crowley hadn’t seen the attacker on his right, or perhaps he didn’t have the time to defend against all of them and had just made the best of a bad situation – although best was a relative term. He disappeared from view with the blade that had found its way past his defences, the fabric around the thin blade turning a dark, sinister colour. Will held his breath – one second, two seconds – willing Crowley to get back up again.

He didn’t.

The sound Halt made was almost inhuman. It was a guttural noise of pure anguish, as if he had been the one struck down. Will’s breath caught in his throat as he stumbled forwards, watching Halt fight back the onslaught with renewed vigour, stepping sideways so that he was stood over Crowley, protecting him. Horrified and unable to look away, Will stumbled forwards, wanting to help, too far from rational thought to see how he possibly could.

Then he paid for his distracted staring as someone swung a club into his ribs. He went flying backwards, landing hard on the ground, the dust stinging at his eyes as he rolled back over onto his back, trying to figure out how to stand again. Something had cracked – one of his ribs, or maybe two or three – and every gasp of air was pained and shallow as he tried to scramble away from the bandit advancing on him, feeling dizzy and uncoordinated, clumsy in his movements. As his attacker raised his club, a large, heavy arrowhead appeared in the centre of his chest, pushing through from behind him with a wet crunching sound. Will stared at the confused look on the man’s face as he pitched forwards, crumpling to the ground, and then looked up towards the Rangers still firing into the fight. One of them had saved his life, he knew, and he wanted to know who it had been, wanted to thank them somehow. As he was doing so, some unseen fighter stepped backwards, avoiding a blow, and kicked him in the head with a heavy leather boot tipped with steel. There was a moment of white hot pain, and then everything faded to a blissfully silent black as Will lost consciousness and went limp in the dust.


	20. Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reaching the end of this godforsaken fanfic with me. 50k words. my fingers are going to fall off.
> 
> enjoy!
> 
> \- Jay

Halt didn’t like his current situation. Everything hurt – every inch of him, inside and out, hurt. Breathing was painful. Sitting down was also painful but standing up or moving was even more so. Every little adjustment of his limbs or head caused fresh and intense bursts of pain to spark along his nerves.

Drinking was slightly less painful, but Halt was fairly certain that was because the alcohol was numbing the pain to some small extent, taking the edge off of it. There was smoke in his lungs that he couldn’t quite hack up, and his stitches threatened to tear with every slight movement. His bruises ached insistently. Despite all of that, Halt was happy. There were moments in the not too distant past that had scared him more than he would ever admit – the long, thin blade disappearing into Crowley’s side, finding Will lying unconscious in the blood-soaked dust – but now, with Crowley sat next to him, huddled against his side, and Will chatting enthusiastically to his friends from the town at the next table, he felt happy. Chubb had convinced people to drag their tables and chairs out into the street while he employed the efforts of Jurgen and Leander to dig up his emergency supplies, and now Rangers and townsfolk alike sat and drank in the dying sunlight.

The burial team had returned. The six dead Rangers were lying in the morgue, ready to be taken back to the Gorge, but the bandits and townsfolk who had died had been taken outside of town and buried with wooden markers at their heads and a sign to explain what had happened. Morgarath had been buried there too. Horace said that Will had killed him, and Will argued that it had been Horace’s efforts that had led to his death. Doing his level best to ignore their bickering, Halt was simply grateful that they were both alive to tell the tale. He sighed and leaned sideways. Someone had bought their sofa out onto the street, and Halt had promptly claimed it for the pair of them, glaring everyone else into submission. It was soft and comfortable in a way that little else in Halt’s life was – a luxury that he had convinced himself he deserved, with Morgarath dead. The thought made him smile slowly, feeling the solid warmth of Crowley’s hand in his, anchoring him to that peaceful moment, to the satisfaction of knowing they had won.

He would never forget the terror he had felt as Crowley had fallen limp beside him. His throat was still raw from screaming, trying to express a grief that had torn through him in the immeasurable amount of time he had spent half-dead himself in the belief that Crowley was gone, was never coming back. That fear, that loss, that pain – it had been so much more than anything he had ever felt before. More than losing Gilan, more than the betrayal of Ferris, more than Pritchard’s death. More than being poisoned, half drowned, stabbed, or beaten. Halt had known, for those infinite, awful moments, that he was already as good as dead, and he had felt the pain of it acutely.

“We did it.” Crowley smiled, abruptly pulling Halt out of his darkened train of thought. “Well, I suppose they did it.” With a hum of approval, Halt settled further down into the sofa, trying to find an escape from the pain. He had been in enough fights to know that he wouldn’t be able to get away from the pain, that it would linger in his bones until it decided to go away – which it might not do, depending on what it was that had actually been broken.

“Just for once.” He groaned, stretching like a cat as he huddled closer to Crowley, enjoying the warmth radiating from his body. “Just for once I would like to get in a fight and not end up with cracked ribs or a twisted ankle or – or any of the other little annoying injuries.” Crowley’s rattling, smoke-corrupted laugh made him frown. “And I’d appreciate it if you stopped scaring me half to death.” Again, that rattling laugh as Crowley leaned back, taking a long draught of his ale.

“It’s not like I aim to get stabbed.” Wincing, Crowley reached his arm up and around Halt’s shoulders.

“Well don’t do it again.” Halt muttered, looking up at Crowley with a frown. “You know what I’d do if you –” They both fell silent, quietly breathing in the cool, clean evening air.

“Fine, I won’t then.” He replied, grinning broadly. “Morgarath is dead, love. We’ll go back to the Gorge tomorrow, and then we can run away together.”

“Together.” Murmuring the word softly into Crowley’s hair, Halt felt safe and at peace for once. “Who will take over?”

“Probably Leander. He’ll have a good support group.” Hesitating for one long moment, Crowley sighed. “It should have been Gilan.” Halt sniffed, as if trying to hold back tears, breathing deeply and evenly to try and control his emotions.

“It should have been Gilan.” He agreed, shifting to try and find a more comfortable position. “We should go to Picta, before we leave.”

“Hm. And explain to Will.” They both turned to look over at the boy, laughing at something one of his friends had said – a girl with strawberry blonde hair that was shaved on one side, short and prickly, and braided intricately on the other. Guilt started to claw at Halt, reminding him of the promise that he had made not to abandon him. It was for the best, he thought. Ferris was dangerous and staying would put Will in danger. There was no doubt whatsoever in his mind that, now Ferris knew he was alive, he would endeavour to hunt him down and succeed in murdering him as he had failed to do all those many years ago – sixteen years, Halt realised, feeling more tired than ever.

“He won’t understand. None of them will.” Sighing heavily, Halt nodded in agreement. The price of keeping secrets, he thought. That nobody would understand why he needed to do what he did – nobody except for Crowley, of course. 

“Maybe one day.” He said, quietly, turning back to Crowley with a grunt of pain. “I wrote him a letter.” Halt patted his pocket, the motion still clearly causing him pain. “About his father. He should understand that, at least.” Again, a comfortable silence stretched between them. They didn’t need words to talk, to communicate. Closing his eyes, Halt almost managed to drift off into sleep, to ignore the pain aching through him and fall into oblivion. “Marry me.” He said, quietly, balancing on the thin line between consciousness and the peaceful quiet.

“Alright.” Crowley replied, smiling happily. The silence stretched out again, warm and inviting – Halt wanted to swim down into the depths of silent sleep and not wake up until he was healed, until the pain was gone. “We can get Duncan to do something about that.” Everything seemed simpler with the pleasant, numbing buzz of alcohol and the soft tendrils of sleep cradling his mind and coaxing him into restfulness. With a small, private smile, Halt tilted his head sideways to rest on Crowley’s shoulder. They both ignored the fresh bursts of pain until they faded into the background and Halt felt sleep creeping in around the edges once more.

“Which one of you is Crowley Meratyn?” The voice startled Halt out of the almost-sleep he had been trying to enjoy for nearly an hour. It belonged to someone wearing the uniform of a captain of the Clonmel guard, the ornate crest standing clearly on the green and gold fabric. A chill of fear ran up Halt’s spine for a moment. Crowley waved a hand lazily in their direction, unwilling to move more than he had to and all too aware of the danger that the small group of guards posed to their safety – to Halt, in particular. The majority of the Rangers had set up a temporary camp outside Araluen, and by all rights Crowley and Halt should have been there with them, already long since sleeping. Unfortunately, their unwillingness to move meant that they were still in the street, on the sofa, when the guards appeared in the middle of the main street of Araluen. Presumably, they had simply walked down the street, leaving their transport outside the town limits, and everyone had simply been too tired to notice or care.

“That would be me.” Crowley said, managing to sound casual, rather than as if he had been stabbed badly only a few hours earlier. He looked at Halt for a long moment with noticeable concern in his eyes, before looking back at the captain of the guard with an air of disinterest that was almost certainly feigned. “Can I help you?” Raising one eyebrow slowly, he reclined back into the sofa with an almost regal attitude.

“You’re coming with us.” The captain replied in the same harsh, uncompromising tone. He gestured for two of his men to step towards them. There were five of them in total, apart from the captain, and Halt found himself automatically analysing them for weaknesses, trying to determine if there was any way to fend them off in his battered, weakened state.

“No, I’m not.” Crowley replied with a broad smile. “I’d quite like to stay right here and never move again.” It was a sentiment that Halt felt in his tired and aching bones. He wanted to go to sleep – he had been so close to doing so before the guards had interrupted them and shattered all their carefully laid plans, ground them down to dust and scattered them to the winds.

“In which case.” Said the captain, grimly, and the two advancing implacably on Crowley and Halt drew their swords with a sinister slither of steel on leather. “My orders are to take Crowley and his associate to Clonmel – or to kill them.” Exhausted by the idea of having to fight again, Halt placed one hand deliberately on the hilt of his saxe knife. His muscles screamed with pain – but no more than the rest of him did, and Halt was so tired of the pain clawing along his bones, dragging talons along his nerves. He ignored it, determined to regain his sense of control.

“Hang on a minute.” Standing up, Duncan walked over so that he was standing between them and the guards. “You can’t just take people off to wherever for no reason. And you certainly can’t kill them. Not in Araluen, anyway.” Halt was grateful for his support, even if it didn’t make him feel any better about the situation.

“Those are my orders.” Harsh and unyielding, the captain put his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Doesn’t look like any of you are in much position to stop me.” Halt groaned painfully as he sat up a little straighter, eyeing the guards with suspicion and cold anger. Glancing sideways at Will and his friends, all frozen in horrified fascination, Halt appeared to make a decision, sneering and settling back into the sofa. Cold fury ached in his bones, the old, built up anger at Ferris coming back to the surface and warping itself into despise and hatred – of the guards, of the pain, of everyone and everything around him – apart from Crowley and Will.

“Piss off.” He said quiet and insistent, smiling nastily at the captain and his guards. “And you can tell Ferris –”

“Earl Ferris.” Interrupted the captain, looking unexpectedly furious. That fury appeared to amuse Halt, whose smile broadened. It was not in any way a smile of happiness – it carried no comfort, and did not reach Halt’s eyes, his dark, unreadable gaze as cold as ever.

“You can tell Ferris exactly where to put his pathetic orders. I trust you understand what I mean.” Staring with pointed venom at the captain, Halt’s smile got even worse, if it was possible. The hatred in every word he spoke was old, born of years of resentment and suspicion and loneliness. “And you can tell him that he’s still as much of a slimy, useless toad as ever.” Something about the insult, childish in comparison to all that Ferris had done, all that he was, made Halt feel better, as if it were some kind of small release of all the wound up tension and anger and pain that he had kept locked away for the most part ever since leaving his home and family, fleeing Clonmel and Ireland and finding his way to the great, empty, lonely plains of America.

“Right, get them.” The captain of the guard jerked his head towards them, glaring with particular malice at Halt, who smiled back at him with an oddly menacing air for a man unable to breathe without pain – let alone wield the knife whose hilt his fingers brushed irresistibly. He distracted himself from the pain by focussing on the despise he felt for his brother, rising like a tide within him. Perhaps, he thought, he would get up and punch the irritating man in the nose – as soon as the pain decided to leave him alone. At some point, he had moved past the fear and anger into something closer to frustration. It was a familiar, almost comforting emotion.

“You still haven’t said what for!” Duncan said calmly, firmly, stepping forwards with his shoulders squared. The tension built in that standoff, the captain glaring at all of them, seeming to be struggling to come to a decision. Something about that tension reminded Halt of Morgarath and he had to forcibly remind himself of how the cold, pale, dead and dusty face of his old enemy had looked, lying in the street not far from where he now sat, stone dead. It gave him some small reassurance as the tension wound its way to a peak.

“Fine. You want me to say why?” Shoving past Duncan roughly, the captain dragged Crowley to his feet, ignoring his gasp of pain and Halt’s furious protests and threats. He spun him around, roughly twisting Crowley’s hands behind his back and cuffing them as the two guards that had been approaching them sheathed their swords and eyed Halt with apprehension. “Crowley Meratyn, you are under arrest for the murder of Halt O’Carrick. You and your little friend here are coming back to Clonmel with us.” For a long moment, there was silence, into which Halt laughed, short, sharp, painful and bitter. Almost everyone seemed frozen in shock or confusion or betrayal, unable to understand the sentence that still hung in the air, looming over them all. Will seemed to be stuck on the verge of calling out, about to ask Halt to explain, to make sense of all of it.

Then one of the guards hauled Halt to his feet, unheeding of his pained hiss of warning and protest. The spell was broken, and chaos reigned once more in the streets of Araluen.


End file.
